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Orabant hodie meminiffes, Quinte, reverti.
Imprimat his cura Maecenas figna tabellis.
Dixeris, Experiar: Si vis, potes, addit; et instat.
Septimus octavo propior jam fugerit annus,
Ex quo Maecenas me coepit habere fuorum

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"Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind,
"To get my Warrant quickly fign'd:
"Confider 'tis my first request."-
Be fatisfy'd, I'll do my beft:
Then presently he falls to teize,
"You may for certain, if you please;
"I doubt not, if his Lordship knew-


And, Mr. Dean, one word from you". 'Tis (let me fee) three years and more, (October next it will be four)

Since HARLEY bid me firft attend,

And chose me for an humble friend;

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VER. 82. And, Mr. Dean,] Very happily turned from Si vis potes

VER. 85. Since Harley bid me] The rife and progrefs of Swift's intimacy with Lord Oxford is minutely detailed in his very interest. ing Journal to Stella. And the reasons why a man, that served a ministry so effectually, was fo tardily, and fo difficultly, and fo poorly rewarded, are well explained in Sheridan's Life of Swift, and arofe principally from the infuperable averfion the Queen had conceived to the Author of a Tale of a Tub as a profane book; which averfion was kept alive, and encreased by the Dutchess of Somerset, against whom Swift had written a fevere lampoon. It appears from this life that Lords Oxford and Bolingbroke always kept concealed from Swift their inability to ferve him. One of the most common artifices of minifters and great men is to retain in their fervice those whom they cannot reward, and "Spe pafcere inani ;"—for year after year. With whatever fecrets Swift might have been trufted, it does not appear he knew any thing of a defign to bring in the Pretender. Swift was a true Whig. His political principles are amply unfolded in an excellent letter written to Pope, Jan. 20, 1721, in the ninth volume of this edition and indeed they had been fufficiently difplayed, many years before, in The Sentiments of a Church of England Man; a treatise replete with ftrong fenfe, found principles, and clear reasoning.

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In numero: duntaxat ad hoc, quem tollere rheda
Vellet, iter faciens, et cui concredere nugas
Hoc genus, Hora quota eft? Threx eft Gallina Syro


Matutina parum cautos jam frigora mordent:
Et quae
rimofa bene deponuntur in aure.

Per totum hoc tempus, fubjectior in diem et horam
Invidiae nofter. ludos fpectaverit una:

Luferit in campo: Fortunae filius, omnes.

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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?" "Who's Chariot's that we left behind?" Or gravely try to read the lines Writ underneath the Country Signs; Or," Have you nothing new to-day "From Pope, from Parnel, or from Gay?"

Such tattle often entertains

My Lord and me as far as Stains,
As once a week we travel down
To Windfor, and again to Town,
Where all that paffes, inter nos,
Might be proclaim'd at Charing-crofs.
Yet fome I know with envy fwell,
Because they see me us'd fo well:
"How think you of our Friend the Dean?
"I wonder what some people mean;



My Lord and he are grown fo "Always together, tête à tête,

with a witnefs.

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VER. 91. Or gravely try to read the lines] Another of their amufements in these excurfions confifted in Lord Oxford and Swift's counting the poultry on the road, and which ever reckoned thirtyone first, or faw a cat, or an old woman, won the game. Bolingbroke overtaking them one day in their road to Windfor, got into Lord Oxford's coach, and begun fome political converfation; Lord Oxford faid, "Swift, I am up; there is a cat." Boling. broke was difgufted with this levity, and went again into his own carriage. This was

Nugari et difcinéti ludere"



Frigidus a Roftris manat per compita rumor:
Quicunque obvius eft, me confulit; O bone (nam te
Scire, Deos quoniam propius contingis, oportet)
Num quid de Dacis audifti? Nil equidem. Ut tu
Semper eris derifor! At omnes Dî exagitent me,
Si quicquam. Quid? militibus promiffa Triquetra
Praedia Caefar, an eft Itala tellure daturus?
Jurantem me fcire nihil miratur, ut unum
Scilicet egregii mortalem altique filenti.

Perditur haec inter mifero lux; non fine votis,
O rus, quando ego te afpiciam? quandoque licebit,
Nunc veterum libris, nunc fomno et inertibus horis,
Ducere folicitae jucunda oblivia vitae ?
O quando faba Pythagorae cognata, fimulque
Uncta fatis pingui ponentur olufcula lardo?
O noctes coenaque Deûm! quibus ipfe meique,

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