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TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
Sir, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty ?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give — and let 'em : If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them - when I get 'em.
I'll give - but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion ;
Such short-lived offerings but disclose
A transitory passion —
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil, I'll give thee — alı! too charming maid !.
I'll give thee to the Devil !
* Imitated from Grecourt, a witty French poet.
AN ELEGY ON TIE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG,
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes:
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighboring streets
The wond'ring neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite
The dog it was that died.
IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.
LOGICIANS have but ill defined
As rational the human mind :
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione preditum ;
But for my soul I cannot credit ’em ;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature;
* This happy imitation was adopted by his Dublin publisher, as a genuine poem of Swift, and as such it has been reprinted in almost every edition of the Dean's works. Even Sir Walter Scott has inserted it without any remark in his edition of Swift's Works.
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em
Deus est anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbor prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery?
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O’er plains they ramble unconfined,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court :
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place ;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.*
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds ;
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape:
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
A ping the conduct of superiors :
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators;
At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.
LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite -
Till reading - I forgot what day on --
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious, -
First please to turn to god Mercurius;
You'll find him pictured at full length,