The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 13

[Footnote 1: Mr. Beaumont of Trim, remarkable, though not a very old man, for venerable white locks.--_Scott_. He had a claim on the Irish Government, which Swift a.s.sisted him in getting paid. See "Prose Works,"

vol. ii, Journal to Stella, especially at p. 174, respecting Joe's desire for a collector's place.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Archdeacon Wall, a correspondent of Swift's.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Swift's curate at Laracor.]

[Footnote 4: Stella.]

[Footnote 5: Minister of Trim.]

[Footnote 6: The waiting-woman.]

A TOWN ECLOGUE. 1710[1]

_Scene, the Royal Exchange_

CORYDON

Now the keen rigour of the winter's o'er, No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more, While other girls confess the genial spring, And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing, Secure from cold, their lovely necks display, And throw each useless chafing-dish away; Why sits my Phillis discontented here, Nor feels the turn of the revolving year?

Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay, Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play?

PHILLIS

Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change around, Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found: Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid, Was to your rooms in Lincoln's Inn betray'd; Then how you swore, how many vows you made!

Ye listening Zephyrs, that o'erheard his love, Waft the soft accents to the G.o.ds above.

Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!) I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame.

CORYDON

When I forget the favour you bestow'd, Red herrings shall be sp.a.w.n'd in Tyburn Road: Fleet Street, transform'd, become a flowery green, And ma.s.s be sung where operas are seen.

The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau, Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego; Stock-jobbing, this to Jonathan's shall come, At the Groom Porter's, that play off his plum.

PHILLIS

But what to me does all that love avail, If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale, Each night with wine and wenches you regale?

My livelong hours in anxious cares are past, And raging hunger lays my beauty waste.

On templars spruce in vain I glances throw, And with shrill voice invite them as they go.

Exposed in vain my glossy ribbons s.h.i.+ne, And unregarded wave upon the twine.

The week flies round, and when my profit's known, I hardly clear enough to change a crown.

CORYDON

Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest, Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best; As fruitmen's stalls the summer market grace, And ruddy peaches them; as first in place Plumcake is seen o'er smaller pastry ware, And ice on that: so Phillis does appear In playhouse and in Park, above the rest Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest.

PHILLIS

And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair, Amid her toys, affects a saucy air, And views me hourly with a scornful eye.

CORYDON

She might as well with bright Cleora vie.

PHILLIS

With this large petticoat I strive in vain To hide my folly past, and coming pain; 'Tis now no secret; she, and fifty more, Observe the symptoms I had once before: A second babe at Wapping must be placed, When I scarce bear the charges of the last.

CORYDON

What I could raise I sent; a pound of plums, Five s.h.i.+llings, and a coral for his gums; To-morrow I intend him something more.

PHILLIS

I sent a frock and pair of shoes before.

CORYDON

However, you shall home with me to-night, Forget your cares, and revel in delight, I have in store a pint or two of wine, Some cracknels, and the remnant of a chine.

And now on either side, and all around, The weighty shop-boards fall, and bars resound; Each ready sempstress slips her pattens on, And ties her hood, preparing to be gone.

L. B. W. H. J. S. S. T.

[Footnote 1: Swift and Pope delighted to ridicule Philips' "Pastorals,"

and wrote several parodies upon them, the fame of which has been eclipsed by Gay's "Shepherd's Week."--_Scott_.]

A CONFERENCE

BETWEEN SIR HARRY PIERCE'S CHARIOT, AND MRS. D. STOPFORD'S CHAIR [1]

CHARIOT

My pretty dear Cuz, tho' I've roved the town o'er, To dispatch in an hour some visits a score; Though, since first on the wheels, I've been every day At the 'Change, at a raffling, at church, or a play; And the fops of the town are pleased with the notion Of calling your slave the perpetual motion;-- Though oft at your door I have whined [out] my love As my Knight does grin his at your Lady above; Yet, ne'er before this, though I used all my care, I e'er was so happy to meet my dear Chair; And since we're so near, like birds of a feather, Let's e'en, as they say, set our horses together.

CHAIR

By your awkward address, you're that thing which should carry, With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry.

By your language, I judge, you think me a wench; He that makes love to me, must make it in French.

Thou that's drawn by two beasts, and carry'st a brute, Canst thou vainly e'er hope, I'll answer thy suit?

Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six, No regard to their colour, their s.e.xes you mix: Then on the grand-paw you'd look very great, With your new-fas.h.i.+on'd gla.s.ses, and nasty old seat.

Thus a beau I have seen strut with a c.o.c.k'd hat, And newly rigg'd out, with a dirty cravat.

You may think that you make a figure most s.h.i.+ning, But it's plain that you have an old cloak for a lining.

Are those double-gilt nails? Where's the l.u.s.tre of Kerry, To set off the Knight, and to finish the Jerry?