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And senseless for a time, I stand; but soon,
By friendly jog or neighbouring whisper rous'd,
Obey the dire injunction; straight I loose
Depending brogues, and mount the lofty throne
Indignant, or the back oblique ascend
Of sorrowful compeer: nor long delays
The monarch, from his palace stalking down,
With visage all inflam'd'; his sable robe
Sweeping in lengthening folds along the ground:
He shakes his sceptre, and th impending
Scourge

Brandishes high; nor tears nor shrieks avail;
But with impetuous fury it descends,
Imprinting horrid wounds with fatal flow
Of blood attended, and convulsive pangs.
Curs'd be the wretch, for ever doom'd to bear
Infernal whippings; he, whose savage hands
First grasp'd these barbarous weapons, bitter

cause

Of foul disgrace and many a dolorous groan
To hapless school-boy!-Could it not suffice
I groan'd and toil'd beneath the merciless weight
By stern relentless tyranny impos'd;
But scourges, too, and cudgels were reserv'd,
To goad any harrow'd sides: this wretched life
Loading with heavier ills? a life expos'd
To all the woes of hunger, toil, distress;
Cut off from every genial source of bliss;
From every bland amusement, wont to soothe
The youthful breast; except when father Time,
In joyful change, rolls round the festive hour,
That gives this meagre, pining figure back
To parent fondness, and its native roofs !
Fir'd with the thought, then, then, my tower-
ing soul

Rises superior to its load, and spurns
Its proud oppressors; frantie with delight,
My fancy riots in successive scenes

Of bliss and pleasures: plans and schemes are laid

How blest the fleeting moments to improve,
Nor lose one portion of so rare a boon.

But soon, too soon, the glorious scenes are fled, [state Scarce one short moon enjoy'd; (oh! transient Of sublunary bliss!) by bitter change, And other scenes succeeded. What herce pangs Then racks my soul! what ceaseless floods of grief

Rush down my cheeks, while strong convulsive throbs

Heave all my frame, and choke the power speech!

of

Forlorn I sigh, nor heed the gentle voice
Of friend or stranger, who, with soothing words
And slender gift, would fain beguile my woes:
In vain, for what can aught avail to soothe
Such raging anguish? Oft with sudden glance
Before my eyes in all its horror glares
That well-known form, and oft I seem to hear
The thundering scourge-ah me! e'en now I
Its deadly venom, raging as the pangs [feel
That tore Alcides, when the burning vest
Prey'd on his wasted sides.-At length, return'd
Within these hated walls, again I mourn
A sullen prisoner, till the wish'd approach
Of joyous holiday or festive play

Releases me: ah! freedom that must end
With thee, declining Sol! All hail, ye sires
For sanctity renown'd, whose glorious names
In large conspicuous characters portray'd,
Adorn the annual chronologic page
Of Wing or Partridge; oft, when sore oppress'd
With dire calamities, the glad return
Of your triumphant festivals hath cheer'd
My drooping soul. Nor be thy name forgot,
Illustrious GEORGE! for much to thee I owe
Of heart-felt rapture, as with loyal zeal
Glowing, I pile the crackling bonfire high,
Or hurl the mountain rocket through the air,
Or fiery whizzing serpent: thus thy name
Shall still be honor'd, as through future years
The circling seasons roll their festive round.

Sometimes, by dire compulsive hunger press'd, I spring the neighbouring fence, and scale the trunk

Of apple-tree; or wide, o'er flowery lawns
By hedge or thicket, bend my hasty steps,
Intent, with secret ambush, to surprise
The straw-built nest and unsuspecting brood
Of thrush or bull-finch; oft with watchful ken
Eyeing the backward lawns, lest hostile glance
Observe my footsteps, while each rustling leaf
Stirr'd by the gentle gale alarms my fears:
Then, parch'd beneath the burning heats of

noon,

I plunge into the limpid stream that laves The silent vale; or, on its grassy banks, Beneath some oak's majestic shade recline, Envying the vagrant fishes, as they pass, Their boon of freedom, till the distant sound Of tolling curfew warns me to depart.

Thus under tyrant pow'r I groan, oppress'd With worse than slavery; yet my free-born soul Her native warmth forgets not, nor will brook Menace, or taunt, from proud insulting peer: But summons to the field the doughty foe In single combat, 'midst th' impartial throng, There to decide our fate; oft too, inflam'd With mutual rage, two rival armies meet Of youthful warriors; kindling at the sight, My soul is fill'd with vast heroic thoughts, Trusting in martial glory to surpass Roman or Grecian chief: instant, with shouts, The mingling squadrons join the horrid fray; No need of cannon, or the murderous steel, Wide wasting nature: rage our arms supplies, Fragments of rock are hurl'd, and showers of

stones

Obscure the day; nor less the brawny arm
Or knotted club avail, high in the midst
Are seen the mighty chiefs, through hosts of foes
Mowing their way: and now with tenfold rage
The combat burns, full many a sanguine stream
Distains the field, and many a veteran brave
Lies prostrate; loud triumphant shouts ascend
By turns from either host; each claims the palm
Of glorious conquest; nor till night's dun shades
Involve the sky, the doubtful conflict ends.

Thus, when rebellion shook the thrones of

heaven,

And all th' eternal powers in battle met, High o'er the rest, with vast gigantic strides,' The godlike leaders on th' enibattled plain

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PERUSE my leaves through every part,
And think thou seest my owner's heart,
Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite
As hard, as senseless, and as light;
Expos'd to every coxcomb's eyes,
But hid with caution from the wise.
Here you may read, "Dear charming saint!"
Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:
Here, in beau-spelling, "Tru tel deth ;"
There, in her own, "For an el breth :'
Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!"
There, "A safe way to use perfume:"
Here, a page fill'd with billet-doux,
On t' other side, "Laid out for shoes."
"Madam, I die without your grace.'
"Item, for half a yard of lace."

Who that had wit would place it here,
For every peeping fop to jeer?
In pow'r of spittle and a clout,
Whene'er he please to blot it out:
And then, to heighten the disgrace,
Clap his own nonsense in the place.
Whoe'er expects to hold his part
In such a book, and such a heart,
If he be wealthy, and a fool,
Is in all points the fittest tool;
Of whom it may be justly said,
He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead.

§ 229. Mrs. Harris's Petition. 1699. To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland*, the humble petition of Frances Harris, (Who must starve, and die a maid, if it miscarries),

Humbly showeth,

That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's+ chamber, because I was cold; And I had in a purse seven pounds four shillings and six-pence, besides farthings, in money and gold:

So, because I had been buying things for my Lady last night, [right. I was resolv'd to tell my money to see if it was Now you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock,

Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock,

The Earls of Berkeley and of Galway.
Wife to one of the footmen.
The old deaf housekeeper.

The Earl of Drogheda, who, with the ++ Clerk of the kitchen. 11 Ferris.

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But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord, I thought I should have sunk outright. Lord! madam, says Mary, how d'ye do? Indeed, says I, never worse:

But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse?

Lord help me! said Mary, I never stirr'd out of this place.

Nay, said I, I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case.

So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm; However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm.

So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, [wink. But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a So I was a-dream'd, methought, that we went and search'd the folks round,

And in a corner of Mrs. Duke'st box, tied in a rag, the money was found.

So next morning we told Whittle, || and he fell a-swearing:

Then my dame Wadgar§ came; and she, you know, is thick of hearing.

Dame, said I, as loud as I could bawl, do you know what a loss I have had?

Nay, said she, my Lord Colway's ¶ folks-are all very sad;

For

my Lord Dromedary** comes o' Tuesday without fail.

[ail. Pugh! said I, but that's not the business that I Says Cary++, says he, I have been a servant this five-and-twenty years come spring, And in all the places I liv'd I never heard of such a thing.

Yes, says the steward, I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's, Such a thing as this happen'd just about the time of gooseberries.

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So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief:

(Now you must know, of all things in the world, I hate a thief.) However, I was resolv'd to bring the discourse slily about:

Mrs. Dukes, said I, here's an ugly accident has happen'd out:

'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse H;

+ Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine. The Earl of Berkeley's valet.

¶ Galway.

Primate, was to succeed the two Earls. An usual saying of hers.

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So she roar'd like a bedlam, as though I had call'd her all to nought.

So you know, what could I say to her any more? I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before.

Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man!

No, said I, 'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here anon.

So the chaplain came in: now the servants say he is my sweetheart,

Because he is always in my chamber, and I always take his part.

So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd,

Parson, said I, can you cast a nativity when a body's plunder'd?

(Now you must know he hates to be call'd parson like the devil!)

Truly, says he, Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil!

If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see,

You are no text for my handling, so take that from me:

I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have you to know.

Lord, said I, don't be angry, I'm sure I never thought you so;

You know I honor the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife;

I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all my life.

With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,

Now you may go hang yourself for me! and so went away.

Well, I thought I should have swoon'd: Lord!

said I, what shall I do?

I have lost my money, and shall lose my truelove too!

Then my Lord call'd me: Harry,† said my

Lord, don't cry;

I'll give something towards thy loss; and, says my Lady, so will I.

O! but, said I, what if, after all, the chaplain

won't come to?

For that he said (an't please your Excellencies)

I must petition you.

The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your
Excellencies' protection,
And that I may have a share in next Sunday's
collection;

* Dr. Swift.

And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies letter,

With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better:

And then your poor petitioner, both night and day,

Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty
bound, shall ever pray.

$230. A Description of the Morning. 1709.
Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach
Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own.
The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door
Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous
Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs. [airs,
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the
place.

[deep,

The small-coal man was heard with cadence
Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep.
Duns at his Lordship's gate began to meet,
And brick-dust Moll had scream'd through half
the street.

The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees.
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.

§ 231. A Description of a City Shower. In
Imitation of Virgil's Georgics. 1710.
CAREFUL observers may foretel the hour,
By sure prognostics, when to dread a show'r.
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then go not far to dine;
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in
wine.

A coming show'r your shooting corns presage,
Oldaches will throb, your hollow toothwill rage;
Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled

wings,

A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope;
Such is that sprinkling which some careless
quean

Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she, singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn'd th' unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, sought still for life;
And, wafted with its foe by violent gust,
"Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was
dust.

Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade? ↑ A cant word of Lord and Lady B. to Mrs. Harris.

Sole coat! where dust cemented by the rain
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain !
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout's
abroach,

Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty
strides,

While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.

From whence the neighbouring farmer calls
The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls t.
The vicar once a week creeps in,
Sits with his knee up to his chin;
Here cons his notes and takes a whet,
Till the small ragged flock is met.

A traveller, who by did pass,
Observ'd the roof behind the grass ;
On tip-toe stood, and rear'd his snout,
And saw the parson creeping out;
Was much surpris'd to see a crow
Venture to build his nest so low.
A school-boy ran unto 't and thought
The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
A third, who lost his way by night,
Was forc'd for safety to alight;
And, stepping o'er the fabric-roof,
His horse had like to spoil his hoof.

Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds, he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,)"
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go:
Filth of all hues and odours seem to tell
What street they sail'd from, by their sight
and smell

They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force
From Smithfield or St. Pulchre's shape their

course;

And, in huge confluence join'd at Snow-hill ridge,

Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn-bridge.
Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts,
and blood,

Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd
in mud,
[down the flood.
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling

§ 232. On the little Flouse by the Church-yard
of Castlenock. 1710.

WHOEVER pleaseth to inquire
Why yonder steeple wants a spire,
The gray old fellow Poet Joe
The philosophic cause will show.

Once on a time a western blast
At least twelve inches overcast,
Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all,
Which came with a prodigious fall!
And, tumbling topsy-turvy round,
Lit with its bottom on the ground;
For, by the laws of gravitation,
It fell into its proper station.
This is a little strutting pile
You see just by the church-yard stile;
The walls in tumbling gave a knock,
And thus the steeple got a shock;

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Warburton took it in his noddle,
This building was design'd a model
Or of a pigeon-house or oven,
To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in.
Then Mrs. Johnson || gave her verdict,
And every one was pleas'd that heard it:
All that you make this stir about,
Is but a still which wants a spout."
The Reverend Dr. Raymond § guess'd
More probably than all the rest;
He said, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy's tomb.

The doctor's family came by,
And little miss began to cry:
Give me that house in my own hand! ·
Then madam bade the chariot stand;
Call'd to the clerk in manner mild,
Pray, reach that thing here to the child:
That thing, I mean, among the kale;
And here's to buy a pot of ale.

The clerk said to her, in a heat,
What! sell my master's country-seat,
Where he comes every week from town!
He would not sell it for a crown.
Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother;
In balf an hour thou 'It make another.

Says Nancy, I can make for miss
A finer house ten times than this;
The Dean will give me willow-sticks,
And Joe, my apron-full of bricks.

§ 233. The Fable of Midas. 1711.

MIDAS, we are in story told,
Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold.
He chipp'd his bread, the pieces round
Glitter'd like spangles on the ground:
A codling, ere it went his lip in,
Would straight become a golden pippin:
He call'd for drink; you saw him sup
Potable gold in golden cup:

His empty paunch that he might fill,
He suck'd his victuals through a quill;

Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.
§ Minister of Trim. The waiting-woman.

Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders,
Or 't had been happy for gold-finders :
He cock'd his hat, you would have said
Mambrino's helm adorn'd his head.
Whene'er he chanc'd his hands to lay
On magazines of corn or hay,
Gold ready-coin'd appear'd instead
Of paltry provender and bread;
Hence by wise farmers we are told,
Old hay is equal to old gold;
And hence a critic deep maintains,
We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains.
This fool had got a lucky hit,
And people fancied he had wit.
Two gods their skill in music tried,
And both chose Midas to decide:
He against Phoebus' harp decreed,
And gave it for Pan's oaten reed.
The god of wit, to show his grudge,
Clapp'd ass's ears upon the judge;
A goodly pair, erect and wide,
Which he could neither gild nor hide.
And now the virtue of his hands
Was lost among Pactolus' sands,
Against whose torrent while he swims,
The golden scurf peels off his limbs:
Fame spreads the news, and people travel
From far to gather golden gravel;
Midas, expos'd to all their jeers,
Had lost his art, and kept his ears.
This tale inclines the gentle reader
To think upon a certain leader;
To whom from Midas down descends
That virtue in the fingers' ends.
What else by perquisites are meant,
By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.
By places and commissions sold,
And turning dung itself to gold;
By starving in the midst of store,
As t'other Midas did before?

None e'er did modern Midas choose
Subject or patron of his muse,
But found him thus their merit scan,
That Phoebus must give place to Pan:
He values not the poet's praise,
Nor will exchange his plums for bays:
To Pan alone rich misers call;
And there's the jest, for Pan is all.
Here English wits will be to seek;
Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek.

Besides, it plainly now appears
Our Midas too hath ass's ears;
Where every fool his mouth applies,
And whispers-in a thousand lies;
Such gross delusions could not pass
Through any ears but of an ass.

But gold defiles with frequent touch: There's nothing fouls the hands so much : And scholars give it for the cause Of British Midas' dirty paws; Which while the senate strove to scour, They wash'd away the chymic pow'r While he his utmost strength applied, To swim against this pop'lar tide, The golden spoils flew off apace: Here fell a pension, there a place :

The torrent merciless imbibes

Commissions, perquisites, and bribes,
By their own weight sunk to the bottom;
Much good may do them that have caught 'em!
And Midas now neglected stands,
With ass's ears and dirty hands.

$234. A Dialogue between a Member of Purliament and his Servant. In Imitation of Horace, Sat. II. vii. First printed in 1752. Serv. LONG have I heard your fav'rite theme, A general reformation scheme,

To keep the poor from every sin,
From gaming, inurder, and from gin,
And now I have no less an itch

To venture to reform the rich.

Memb. What, John! are you too turn'd
projector ?

Come then, for once I'll hear your lecture.
For since a member, as 'tis said,

His projects to his servants read,
And of a favourite speech a book made
With which he tir'd each night a cook-maid,
And so it hapt that every morning

The tasteless creatures gave him warning;
Since thus we use them, 'tis but reason
We hear our servants in their season.
Begin. Serv. Like gamblers, half mankind
Persist in constant vice combin'd;

In races, routs, the stews, and White's,
Pass all their days and all their nights.
Others again like Lady Prue,

Who gives the morning church its due;
At noon is painted, dress'd, and curl'd,
And one amongst the wicked world;
Keeps her account exactly even,
As thus: " Prue creditor to heaven:
To sermons heard on extra days.
Debtor: To masquerade and plays.
Item: to Whitfield, half an hour.
Per contra: To the colonel, four."
Others, I say, pass half their time
In folly, idleness, or crime:
Then all at once their zeal grows warm,
And every throat resounds reform.

A lord his youth in every vice
Indulg'd, but chief in drabs and dice,
Till worn by age, disease, and gout,
Then nature modestly gave out.
Not so my Lord-who still, by proxy,
Play'd with his darling dice and doxy.
I laud this constant wretch's state,
And pity all who fluctuate;
Prefer this slave to dear backgammon,
To those who serve both God and mammon;
To those who take such pains to awe

The nation's vices by the law,

Yet, while they draw their bill so ample,
Neglect the influence of example.

Memb. To whom d'ye preach this senseless

sermon ?

Serv. To you, good Sir. Memb. To me, ye vermin?

Serv. To you, who every day profess T'admire the times of good Queen Bess,

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