Dean Swift being sent for by the Lord Carteret, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and being made to wait in the Council Chamber alone, wrote with a Diamond on the Window
My very good lord, 'tis a very hard task
For a man to wait here who has nothing to ask.
My Lord coming soon after into the room, wrote under it thus:
My very good dean, there are few who come here
But have something to ask, or something to fear.
This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly say,-Here lies an honest man!
A poet blessed beyond a poet's fate,
Whom heaven kept sacred from the proud and great!
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,
Content with science in the vale of peace;
Calmly he looked on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, nor there to fear;
From nature's temperate feast rose satisfied,
Thanked heaven that he had lived, and that he died.
The Petition of Justice B
-ns's Horse, to his Grace the Duke of N.
Quite worn to the stumps, in a piteous condition,
I present to your grace this my humble petition :
Full twenty-eight stone, as all the world says,
(To me it seems more) my plump master weighs.
A load for a team this, yet I all alone
To Claremont must draw him, for help I have none;
O'er Esher's hot sands, in a dry summer's day,
How I sweat and I chafe, and I pant all the way:
But when I return, and the draft is increased
By what he has crammed—a stone at the least—
No single horse can be, in conscience thought able
To draw both the justice, and eke half your table.
This, my case, gracious duke, to your tender compassion
I submit, and O! take it in consideration.
To draw with a pair, put the squire in a way,
Your petitioner then, bound in duty, shall neigh.
Epitaph on Cardinal Richelieu.
Stay, traveller-for all you want is near:
Wisdom and power I seek-they both lie here.
Nay, but I look for more, and raise my aim,
To wit, taste, learning, elegance, and fame.
Here ends your journey, then; for there the store
Of Richelieu lies-Alas! repent no more:
Shame on my pride! what hope is left for me,
When here death treads on all that man can be?
A Caveat to the Fair Sex.
Wife and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name;
For when that fatal knot is tied
Which nothing, nothing can divide;
When she the word "obey" has said,
And man by law supreme is made,
Then all that's kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride;
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows:
Then but to look, or laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take;
But still be governed by a nod,
And fear her husband as her god;
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what her haughty lord thinks fit,
Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, Oh! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatterers hate;
Value yourselves, and men despise,
You must be proud, if you'll be wise.
Colin was married in all haste,
And now to rack doth run;
So knitting of himself too fast
He hath himself undone.
Were I, who am not of the Romish tribe,
The number of their sacraments to fix,
I speak sincerely, without fee, or bribe,
Instead of seven there should be but six.
All men of sense tautology disclaim,
Marriage and penance always were the same.
Frank carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats;
He eats more than six, and drinks more than he eats.
Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes ;
And seasons his whiffs with impertinent jokes.
Yet sighing, he says, we must certainly break,
And my cruel unkindness compels him to speak:
For of late I invite him-but four times a week.
May peace attend thee through the silent
May all those powers that heavenly virtue
Improve thy mind, nor make thy beauty
But if impatience for sublimer
Prompt thee to call on death, may death be
Epitaph in Stepney Church-Yard.
Here lies the body of John Saul,
Spital-fields weaver, and that's all.
I was last night a god. How! Can't you divine?
I was raised up to heaven by bumpers of wine.
How can I forbear from dancing?
See the stars above me prancing,
Moon and planets to my thinking,
Just have had a bout of drinking,
And are setting at defiance
All the laws of musty science.
Yonder poplar, tall and taper,
Round and round me cuts a caper;
Oaks and elms, and firs and birches,
Hedges, houses, steeples, churches,
All to-night are drunk together,
And dance as lightly as a feather.
I will dance, none dare refuse me,
The world's example must excuse me.
To a Lady that Painted.
Best of all things sure is water.
So says Pindar; you say, nay-
But detest it worse than slaughter,
For your rouge t'would wash away.
To the Painter of a Lady's Portrait.
Much hast thou done with talents rare,
But more is left behind;
I see the body of the fair,
But where's her fairer mind?
Take care of the Pence.
Nancy this doctrine early learned,
Small savings make great profit;
So she the smallest small coal burned,
And very little of it.
Her stove and chimney-piece Ned sees,
And each provokes his ire;
He calleth this-her marble freeze,
And that her small-cold fire.
Indeed, the very child [query, chill'd] who'd been One winter's evening by her grate,
Would learn the difference between
A great fire and a fire-grate.
The house was on fire; Zeno, circled in flame,
In vain called for aid,-sure no case e'er was sadder; He escaped. Tell me how? Why, Antimachus came And lent him the use of his nose for a ladder.
A poor man went to hang himself,
But treasure chanced to find;
He pocketed the miser's pelf,
And left the rope behind.
His money gone, the miser tied
Himself up in despair;
Thus each the other's wants supplied,
And that was only fair.
you read Shakespeare's works, my friend? Ned says. His works! no never-but I have his plays.
Lines written in a Lady's Album.
Yes, I shall live! the voice of fame
Will not be lost to me and mine,
Since, lady, I may write my name
Upon this spotless leaf of thine.
The eager hands of future ages
Will catch the volume left by thee;
And those who dwell within its pages
Will gain an immortality.
Lines written under the foregoing.
And is it thus you hope for fame?
Fame like this! alas! what is it?
To give some idle thought a name,
That some good-natured friend may quiz it.
This constant craving-itch of soul-
For praise and fame, makes those who catch it
Like parrots-who still stretch a pole,
That passers-by may kindly scratch it.
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