Tell at your levee, as the crowds approach,
To whom to nod, whom take into your coach;
Whom honor with your hand; to make remarks,
Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks:
This may be troublesome, is near the chair; 105
That makes three members, this can chuse a
6 may'r.'

Instructed thus, you bow, embrace, protest,
Adopt him son, or cousin, at the least,
Then turn about, and laugh at your own jest.
Or if your life be one continu'd treat,
If to live well, means nothing but to eat ;
Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day,
Go drive the deer, and drag the finny prey;
With hounds and horns go hunt an appetite—
So Russel did, but could not eat at night;
Call'd, happy dog! the beggar at his door;
And envy'd thirst and hunger to the poor.

110

115

Or shall we every decency confound, Through taverns, stews, and bagnios, take our round ?

Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo 120 'K-l's lewd cargo, or Ty-y's crew,

From Latian Syrens, French Circæan feasts,
Return'd well travell'd, and transform'd to beasts;
Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame,
Renounce our country, and degrade our name?
If, after all, we must with Wilmot own

The cordial drop of life is Love alone,

126

And Swift cry wisely Vive la bagatelle!

The man that loves, and laughs, must sure do well.
Adieu-if this advice appear the worst,

E'en take the counsel which I gave you first:
Or better precepts, if you can, impart,

130

Why do, I'll follow them with all my heart. 133

HORACE, BOOK I. EPIST. VII.
[Imitated in the manner of Dr. Swift.]

'Tis true, my Lord, I gave my word
I would be with you June the third;
Chang'd it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it as you do at court.
You humor me when I am sick;
Why not when I am splenetic ?
In Town' what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in ev'ry street,
And fun'rals black'ning all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores :
And what a dust in ev'ry place!
And a thin Court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W* and H** both in Town!
'The dog-days are no more the case,'
'Tis true, but winter comes apace:
Then southward let your bard retire,
Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire,.

And you shall see, the first warm weather, Me and the butterflies together.

My Lord, your favors well I know; 'Tis with distinction you bestow, And not to ev'ry one that comes, Just as a Scotsman does his plums. Pray take them, Sir-enough's a feast: Eat some, and pocket up the rest'-What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues! No, Sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.' Thus fools with compliments besiege ye, Contriving never to oblige ye.

Scatter your favors on a fop,

Ingratitude's the certain crop ;

And 'tis but just, I'll tell you wherefore,---
You give the things you never care for,
A wise man always is, or shou'd
Be, mighty ready to do good;
But makes a diff'rence in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll say, You'll find in me
A safe companion, and a free;
But if you'd have me always near-
A word, pray, in your Honor's ear:
I hope it is your resolution

To give me back my constitution!
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' engaging smile, the gaiety
That laugh'd down many a summer sun,
And kept you up so oft till one,

And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my strain.
A Weasel once made shift to slink
In at a corn-loft, through a chink,
But having amply stuff'd his skin,
Could not get out as he got in;
Which one belonging to the house
('Twas not a man, it was a Mouse)
Observing, cry'd, ' You 'scape not so:
'Lean as you came, Sir, you must go.'
Sir, you may spare your application,

་

I'm no such beast, nor his relation; Nor one that temperance advance, Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans; Extremely ready to resign

All that may make me none of mine.
South-sea subscriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease.

'Twas what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my modesty and smil'd.
Give me, I cry'd, (enough for me)
My bread and independency!
So bought an annual rent or two,
And liv'd—just as you see I do;
Near fifty, and without a wife,
I trust that sinking fund my life.
Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well,
Shrink back to my paternal cell;
A little house with trees a-row,
And, like its master, very low;

There dy'd my father, no man's debtor,
And there I'll die, nor worse nor better.
To set this matter full before ye,
Our old friend Swift will tell his story.

Harley, the nation's great support'-
But you may read it, I stop short.

84