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But, when let out, they run and muddle,
As instinct leads them, in a puddle:
The sober hen, not born to swim,
With mournful note clucks round the brim.

The Dean, with all his best endeavour,
Gets not an heir, but gets a fever.
A victim to the last essays
Of vigour in declining days,
He dies, and leaves his mourning mate
(What could he less?) his whole estate,

The widow goes through all her forms:
New lovers now will come in swarms.
O, may I see her soon dispensing
Her favours to some broken ensign!
Him let her marry, for his face,
And only coat of tarnish'd lace;
To turn her naked out of doors,
And spend her jointure on his whores;
But, for a parting present, leave her
A rooted pox to last for ever!

AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD; ÓR, THE TRUE ENGLISH DEAN * TO BE HANGED FOR A RAPE.

1730.

I.
Our brethren of England, who love us so dear,

And in all they do for us so kindly do mean, (A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year

For the good of our church, a true English dean. A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in crape, The worst you can say, he committed a rape.

# Dr. Thomas Sawbridge, dean of Fernes. F.

II.
In bis journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester,

And there he grew fond of another nian's wife; Burst into her chamber, and would have caress'd her;

But she valued her honour much more than her life,
She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape
To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape.

III.
The Dean he pursued, to recover his game;

And now to attack her again he prepares :
But the company stood in defence of the dame,
They cudgell'd, and cuft him, and kick'd him down

stairs.
His deanship was now in a damnable scrape,
And this was no time for committing a rape.

IV.
To Dublin he comes, to the bagnio he goes,

And orders the landlord to bring him a whore; No scruple came on him his gown to expose,

'Twas what all his life he had practis'd before. He had made himself drunk with the juice of the grape, And got a good clap, but committed no rape.

V.
The Dean, and his landlord, a jolly comrade,

Resolv'd for a fortnight to swim in delight;
For why, they had both been brought up to the trade

Of drinking all day, and of whoring all night,
His landlord was ready his deanship to ape
In every debauch, but committing a rape.

VI.
This protestant zealot, this English divine,

In church and in state was of principles sound; \Vas truer than Steele to the Hanover line,

And griev'd that a tory should live above ground

Shall a subject so loyal be hang'd by the nape,
For no other crime but eonimitting a rape ?

VII. By old popish canons, as wise men have penn'd 'em,

Each priest had a concubine, jure ecclesiæ; Who'd be dean of Fernes without a commendam?

And precedents we can produce, if it please ye: Then why should the Dean, when whores are so cheap, Be put to the peril and toil of a rape?

VIII. If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet

(To thee I apply, great Smedley's successor) To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet,

Whom wouldst thou resenible? I leave theea guesser. But I only behold thee in Atherton's * shape, For sodomy hang'd: as thou for a rape.

IX. Ah! dost thou not envy the brave. colonel Chartres,

Condemnd for thy crime at threescore and ten? To hang him, all England would lend him their garters,

Yet he lives, and is ready to ravish again, Then throttle thyself with an ell of strong tape, For thou hast not a groat to atone for a rape.

X. The Dean he was vex'd that his whores were so willing:

He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall; He ravish'd her fairly, and sav'd a good shilling;

But here was to pay the devil and all.
His trouble and sorrows now come in a heap,
And bang'd he must be for committing a rape.

* A bishop of Waterford, of infamous character. H.

XI.
If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice:

Why are they so wilful to struggle with mea?
If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice,

No devil nor Dean could rayish them then. Nor would there be need of a strong hempen cape Tied round the Dean's neck for comunitting a rape.

XII. Our church and our state dear England maintains,

For which all true Protestant hearts should be glad: She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans,

And better would give us, if better she had. But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will gape, When the good English dean is hang'd up for a rape

ON STEPHEN DUCK,

THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET,

A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM.

1730.

The thresher Duck could o'er the queen prevail, The proverb says,

no fence against a fail." From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains ; For which her majesty allows him grains: Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw His poems, think them not all worth a straw!

Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing stubble! Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double.

THE LADY'S DRESSING ROOM *. 1730.

Five hours (and who can do it less in ?)
By haughty Cælia spent in dressing ;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues.

Strephon, who found the room was void,
And Betty otherwise employ'd,
Stole in, and took a strict survey
Of all the litter as it lay:
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.

And, first, a dirty smock appear'd,
Beneath the armpits well besmear'd;
Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide,
And turn'd it round on every side:
On such a point, few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
But swears, how damnably the men lie
In calling Cælia sweet and cleanly.

Now listen, wbile he next produces
The various combs for various uses;
Fill'd

up

with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt;
A paste of composition rare,
Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair :
A forehead-cloth with oil upon't,
To smooth the wrinkles on her front:

* A defence of « The Lady's Dressing Room," by some facetious friend of our author, is printed in Faulkner's edition; which, after a humorous travestie of ten lines only of.“ Hórace's “ Art of Poetry," decides clearly that there are ten times more slovenly expressions in those ten lines of Horace, than in the whole poem of Dr. Swift. N.

VOL. XI.

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