IV. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER.

My landlord is civil,

But dear as the d-1:

Your pockets grow empty,
With nothing to tempt ye:
The wine is so sour,
'Twill give you a scour :
The beer and the ale
Are mingled with stale.
The veal is such carrion,
A dog would be weary on.
All this I have felt,

For I live on a smelt.

V. ANOTHER, AT CHESTER.

THE walls of this town

Are full of renown,

And strangers delight to walk round 'em: But as for the dwellers,

Both buyers and sellers,

For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em.

VI. ANOTHER, AT HOLYHEAD *:

ONEPTUNE! Neptune! must I still
Be here detain'd against my will?
Is this your justice, when I'm come
Above two hundred miles from home!
O'er mountains steep, o'er dusty plains,
Half chok'd with dust, half drown'd with rains;
Only your Godship to implore,

To let me kiss your other shore?
A boon so small! but I may weep,
While you're, like Baal, fast asleep.

VII. ANOTHER, WRITTEN UPON A WINDOW WHERE THERE WAS NO WRITING BEFORE.

THANKS to my stars, I once can see

A window here from scribbling free!
Here no conceited coxcombs pass,
To scratch their paltry drabs on glass;
Nor party-fool is calling names,

Or dealing crowns to George and James.

VIII. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS

T

AT INNS.

HE sage, who said he should be proud

Of windows in his breast,

Because he ne'er a thought allow'd

That might not be confest;

* These verses are signed JK; but written, as it is presumed, in Dr. Swift's hand. D. S.

His window scrawl'd by every rake,

His breast again would cover; And fairly bid the Devil take The diamond and the lover.

By Satan taught, all conjurers know
Your mistress in a glass to show,
And you can do as much :
In this the Devil and you agree:
None e'er made verses worse than he,
And thine I swear are such.

THAT love is the Devil, I'll prove when requir'd;

Those rhymers abundantly show it:

They swear that they all by love are inspir'd,
And the Devil's a damnable poet.

TO JANUS, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY. 1726.

Two

Be

wo-fac'd Janus, god of Time!
my Phoebus while I rhime;
To oblige your crony Swift,
Bring our dame a new year's gift:
She has got but half a face;
Janus, since thou hast a brace,
To my lady once be kind;
Give her half thy face behind.
God of Time, if you be wise,
Look not with your future eyes;
What imports thy forward sight?
Well, if you could lose it quite.
Can you take delight in viewing
This poor Isle's approaching ruin,
When thy retrospection vast
Sees the glorious ages past?
Happy nation, were we blind,
Or had only eyes behind!

Drown your morals, madam cries,
I'll have none but forward eyes;
Prudes decay'd about may tack,
Strain their necks with looking back.
Give me Time when coming on:
Who regards him when he's gone?
By the Dean though gravely told,
New years help to make me old;
Yet I find a new year's lace
Burnishes an old year's face:
Give me velvet and quadrille,
I'll have youth and beauty still.

Ireland. H.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE,

WRITTEN AFTER THE NEWS OF THE KING'S DEATH

RICHMOND LODGE is a house with a small park belonging to the Crown. It was usually granted by the Crown for a lease of years. The duke of Ormond was the last who had it. After his exile, it was given to the Prince of Wales by the King. The Prince and Princess usually passed their summer there. It is within a mile of Richmond.

MARBLE HILL is a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bed. chamber, afterward countess of Suffolk, and groom of the stole to the Queen. It is on the Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Mr. Pope lived, and about two miles from Richmond Lodge. Mr. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, lord Herbert the architect, the Dean of St. Patrick's chief butler and keeper of the Ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses met, and had the following dialogue.

IN

spite of Pope, in spite of Gay,
And all that he or they can say;
Sing on I must, and sing I will
Of Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill.
Last Friday night, as neighbours use,
This couple met to talk of news:
For, by old proverbs it appears,
That walls have tongues, and hedges ears.

MARBLE HILL.

Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween,
Your mistress now is grown a queen:
You'll find it soon by woeful proof;
She'll come no more beneath your roof.

* George I, who died after a short sickness by eating a melon, at Osnabrug, in his way to Hanover, June 11, 1727. The poem was carried to court, and read to king George II. and quean Caroline. H.