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In the Manner of Dr. Swift
’T IS true, my Lord, I gave my word | |
| I would be with you June the third; | |
| Changed it to August, and (in short) | |
| Have kept it—as you do at Court. | |
| You humour me when I am sick, | 5 |
| Why not when I am splenetic? | |
| In Town what objects could I meet? | |
| The shops shut up in every street, | |
| And funerals black’ning all the doors, | |
| And yet more-melancholy whores: | 10 |
| And what a dust in every place! | |
| And a thin Court that wants your face, | |
| And fevers raging up and down, | |
| And W[ard] and H[enley] both in town! | |
| ‘The dogdays are no more the case.’ | 15 |
| ’T is 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. | 20 |
| My Lord, your favours well I know; | |
| ’T is with distinction you bestow, | |
| And not to every one that comes, | |
| Just as a Scotchman does his plums. | |
| ‘Pray take them, Sir—enough ’s a feast: | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| Scatter your favours on a Fop, | |
| Ingratitude ’s the certain crop; | |
| And ’t is but just, I ’ll tell ye wherefore, | |
| You give the things you never care for. | |
| A wise man always is, or should, | 35 |
| Be mighty ready to be 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; | 40 |
| But if you ’d have me always near, | |
| A word, pray, in Your Honour’s ear: | |
| I hope it is your resolution | |
| To give me back my constitution, | |
| The sprightly wit, the lively eye, | 45 |
| Th’ engaging smile, the gayety | |
| 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. | 50 |
| A Weasel once made shift to slink | |
| In at a corn-loft thro’ a chink, | |
| But having amply stuff’d his skin, | |
| Could not get out as he got in; | |
| Which one belonging to the house | 55 |
| (’T was not a man, it was a mouse) | |
| Observing, cried, ‘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, | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| Leave me but liberty and ease: | |
| ’T was what I said to Craggs and Child, | |
| Who praised my modesty, and smil’d. | |
| ‘Give me,’ I cried (enough for me) | |
| ‘My bread and independency!’ | 70 |
| So bought an annual rent or two, | |
| And lived—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, | 75 |
| Shrink back to my paternal cell, | |
| A little house, with trees a row, | |
| And, like its master, very low; | |
| There died my father, no man’s debtor, | |
| And there I ’ll die, nor worse nor better. | 80 |
| 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. | |
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