Lo! the small-pox, with horrid glare,
Levell'd its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.

The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright:
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes;
In vain she tries her paste and creams
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The squire himself was seen to yield,
And ev❜n the captain quit the field.

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old :
With modesty her cheeks are dyed,
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean;
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good nature every day :
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

THE GIFT.*

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual offering shall I make

Expressive of my duty?

Imitated from Grecourt, a witty but indecent French poet.-- B.

T

130

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

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 rosebud 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-ah! too charming maid!
I'll give thee-to the Devil!

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

[From the Vicar of Wakefield.]

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wond'rous 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 neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours 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 shew'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite-
The dog it was that died.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.*

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;

*This singularly happy imitation was adopted by Mr Faulkner, his Dublin publisher, as a genuine poem of Swift, and as such it has been reprinted in almost every successive edition of the Dean's works. Even Sir Walter Scott has fallen into the same mistake, and has inserted this piece without any remark in his excellent edition of Swift's Works published in 1814. B.

And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
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 neighbour 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 fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each others' 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
Aping 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 master's manners still contract,
And footmen lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and sma
Behave alike, for all ape all.

A NEW SIMILE

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

[First printed in the Author's volume of Essays, 1765
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 forget 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,
In book the second, page the tenth :
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay
And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed:
A just comparison—proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes,
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air :
And here my simile unites;

For in a modern poet's flights,

• Var.-I long had rack'd my brains to find, &c.