An Epitaph on Little Stephen, a noted Fiddler in the County of Suffolk.
Stephen and Time
Are now both even;
Stephen beat Time,
Now Time beats Stephen.
On Giles and Joan.
Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be?
The observing neighbours no such mood can see;
Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever,
But that his Joan doth too: and Giles would never,
By his free will, be in Joan's company;
No more would Joan he should: Giles riseth early,
And having got him out of doors is glad;
The like is Joan: but turning home is sad;
And so is Joan: oft-times when Giles doth find
Harsh sights at home, Giles wishes he were blind;
All this doth Joan: or, that his long-earned life
Were quite out-spun; the like wish hath his wife:
In all affections she concurreth still;
If now with man and wife to will and nill
The self same things, a note of concord be,
I know no couple better can agree.
Oh, what bosom but must yield,
When, like Pallas, you advance,
With a thimble for your shield,
And a needle for your lance!
Fairest of the stitching train,
Ease my passion by your art;
And in pity to my pain,
Mend the hole that's in my heart.
A Distich, written under the sign of the King's Head and Bell in
Dublin, at the host's request.
BY DEAN SWIFT.
May the king live long;
Dong, ding, ding, dong.
Thy verses are eternal, O my friend!
For he who reads them, reads them to no end.
On seeing a Miser at Vauxhall Gardens.
Music has charms to sooth a savage breast,
To calm the tyrant, and relieve the opprest:
But Vauxhall's concert's more attracting power
Unlocked Sir Richard's pocket at threescore:
Oh! strange effect of music's matchless force,
To attract a shilling from a miser's purse!
To a Lady who had very bad Teeth.
Ovid, who bids the ladies laugh,
Spoke only to the young and fair;
For thee his counsel were not safe,
Who of sound teeth have scarce a pair.
If thou the glass or me believe,
Shun mirth, as foplings do the wind;
At Cibber's face affect to grieve,
And let thy eyes alone be kind.
If thou art wise see dismal plays,
And to sad stories lend thy ear;
With the afflicted spend thy days,
And laugh not above once a year.
On an old Maid's Marriage.
Celia, a coquet in her prime,
The vainest, ficklest thing alive;
Behold the strange effects of time!
Marries and doats at forty-five.
Thus weathercocks, that for awhile
Have turned about with every blast,
Grown old, and destitute of oil,
Rust to a point, and fix at last.
Of two reliefs to cure a love-sick mind,
Flavia prescribes despair; I urge, be kind;
Flavia, be kind: the remedy's as sure;
'Tis the most pleasant, and the quickest cure.
Under the Picture of a Beau.
This vain thing set up for a man,
But see what fate attends him;
The powdering barber first began,
The barber-surgeon ends him.
On a Gentleman drinking the Health of an unkind Mistress.
Why dost thou wish that she may live,
Whose living beauties make thee grieve?
Thou wouldst more wisely wish her kind,
That she may change her cruel mind;
Thy present wish but this can gain,
That she may live, and thou complain.
His thrusts like lightning flew, yet subtle death
Parried them all, and beat him out of breath.
When Phillis confessed, the father was rash,
And so, without further reflection,
Her delicate skin he condemned to the lash,
While himself would bestow the correction :
Her husband, who heard this, opposed it by urging,
That he, in regard to her weakness,
And to save her soft back, would himself bear the scourging With humble submission and meekness.
She piously cried, when the priest gave accord,
To show what devotion was in her,
He's able and lusty, pray cheat not the Lord,
For, alas! I'm a very great sinner.
On a Gentleman who died the day after his Lady.
She first departed; he for one day tried
To live without her: liked it not, and died.
A Welchman coming late into an inn,
Asked the maid what meat there was within?
Cow-heels, she answered, and a breast of mutton;
But, quoth the Welchman, since I am no glutton,
Either of these shall serve to-night the breast,
The heels i' th' morning, then light meat is best;
At night he took the breast, and did not pay,
I' th' morning took his heels, and ran away.
Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begged his bread.
On an old Woman with false Hair.
The golden hair that Galla wears
Is hers who would have thought it!
She swears 'tis hers,—and true she swears;
For I know where she bought it.
On another old Woman. BY MR. PRIOR.
From her own native France, as old Alison past,
She reproached English Nell with neglect or with malice;
That the slattern had left, in the hurry and haste,
Her lady's complexion and eye-brows at Calais.
Here lies honest Strephon with Mary his bride,
Who merrily lived, and cheerfully died;
They laughed and they loved, and drank while they were able,
But now they are forced to knock under the table.
This marble, which formerly served them to drink on,
Now covers their bodies,—a sad thing to think on!-
That do what one can to moisten our clay,
"Twill one day be ashes, and moulder away.
On an ugly old Woman in the Dark.
Whilst in the dark on thy soft hand I hung,
And heard the tempting syren in thy tongue;
What flames, what darts, what anguish I endured!
But, when the candle entered, I was cured.
On a beautiful and ingenious young Lady.
Minerva, one day, pray let nobody doubt it,
Rid an airing from Oxford six miles, or about it,
Where she 'spied a young damsel so blooming and fair,
That, ah, Venus! she cried, is your ladyship there?
Pray is not yon Oxford?—and lately you sware,
Neither you, nor aught like you, should ever come there:
Do you thus keep your promise? and am I defied?
The virgin drew near her, and, smiling replied,
- My goddess! what have you your pupil forgot?
-Your pardon, my dear,Is it you, Molly Scot?
To a Lady who married her Footman.
Dear cousin, think it no reproach,
(Thy virtue shines the more,)
To take black John into the coach
He rode behind before.
On stealing a Pound of Candles.
Light-fingered Catch, to keep his hand in ure,
Stole anything; of this you may he sure,
That he thinks all his own which once he handles,
For practice-sake did steal a pound of candles;
Was taken in the fact: Oh, foolish wight!
To steal such things as needs must come to light.
On a very plain Lady, that patched much.
Your homely face, Flippanta, you disguise,
With patches, numerous as Argus' eyes;
I own that patching's requisite to you,
For more we are pleased, if less your face we view ;
Yet I advise, if my advice you'd ask,
Wear but one patch; but be that patch a mask.
Whene'er I look, I may descry
A little face peep through that eye;
Sure that's the boy, who wisely chose
His throne among such beams as those,
Which, if his quiver chance to fall,
May serve for darts to kill withal.
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