And, for our home-bred British cheer,
Botargo, catsup, and caviare.

This bloated harpy, sprung from Hell,
Confin'd thee, goddess, to a cell:
Sprung from her womb that impious line,
Contemners of thy rites divine.

First, lolling Sloth in woollen cap
Taking her after-dinner nap:
Pale Dropsy with a sallow face,
Her belly burst, and slow her pace:
And lordly Gout, wrapt up in fur:
And wheezing Asthma, loth to stir :
Voluptuous Ease, the child of wealth,
Infecting thus our hearts by stealth.
None seek thee now in open air,
To thee no verdant altars rear;
But, in their cells and vaults obscene
Present a sacrifice unclean;

From whence unsavoury vapours rose,
Offensive to thy nicer nose.

Ah! who, in our degenerate days,
As nature prompts, his offering pays?
Here nature never difference made
Between the sceptre and the spade.

Ye great ones, why will ye disdain
Τα pay your tribute on the plain?
Why will you place in lazy pride
Your altars near your couches side;
When from the homeliest earthen ware
Are sent up offerings more sincere,
Than where the haughty duchess locks
Her silver vase in cedar box?

Yet some devotion still remains
Among our harmless northern swains,
Whose offerings, plac'd in golden ranks,
Adorn our crystal rivers' banks;

Nor seldom grace the flowery downs,
With spiral tops and copple crowns;
Or gilding in a sunny morn

The humble branches of a thorn.
So, poets sing, with golden bough
The Trojan hero paid his vow. *
Hither, by luckless error led,
The crude consistence oft I tread:
Here when my shoes are out of case,
Unweeting gild the tarnish'd lace;
Here, by the sacred bramble ting'd,
My petticoat is doubly fring'd,

Be witness for me, nymph divine,
I never robb'd thee with design:
Nor will the zealous Hannah pout
To wash thy injur'd offering out.

But stop, ambitious Muse, in time,
Nor dwell on subjects too sublime.
In vain on lofty heels I tread,
Aspiring to exalt my head:

With hoop expanded wide and light,
In vain I'tempt too high a flight.

Me Phoebus + in a midnight dream †
Accosting, said, "Go shake your cream. §
Be humbly-minded, know your post :
Sweeten your tea, and watch

your toast.
Thee best befits a lowly style:
Teach Dennis how to stir the guile :
With Peggy Dixon ¶ thoughtful sit,
Contriving for the pot and spit.

Virg. lib. 6.-F.

+ Cynthius aurem vellit. Hor.-F.

Cumsomnia vera. Hor.-F.

In the bottle to make butter. ---F.

The quantity of ale or beer brewed at one time...F. 1 Mrs Dixon, the housekeeper...-F.

Take down thy proudly swelling sails,
And rub thy teeth and pare thy nails:
At nicely carving show thy wit;
But ne'er presume to eat a bit :
Turn every way thy watchful eye,
And every guest be sure to ply:
Let never at your board be known
An empty plate, except your own.
Be these thy arts; nor higher aim
Than what befits a rural dame.
"But Cloacina, goddess bright,
Sleek claims her as his right:
And Smedley, † flower of all Divines,
Shall sing the Dean in Smedley's lines."

*

TWELVE ARTICLES.

I. LEST it may more quarrels breed,

I will never hear

you read.

II. By disputing, I will never,

To convince you once endeavour.

III. When a paradox you stick to,
I will never contradict you.

IV. When I talk and you are heedless,
I will show no anger needless.

* Hæ tibi erunt artes. Virg.---F.

+ A very stupid, insolent, factious, deformed, conceited person; a vile pretender to poetry, preferred by the Duke of Graf. ton for his wit.-.-F. See various attacks upon him in the preceding volume.

V. When your speeches are absurd,
I will ne'er object a word.

VI. When you furious argue wrong,

I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII. Not a jest or humorous story
Will I ever tell before ye:
To be chidden for explaining,
When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII. Never more will I suppose,

You can taste my verse or prose.

IX. You no more at me shall fret,
While I teach and you forget.

X. You shall never hear me thunder,
When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI. Show your poverty of spirit,

And in dress place all your merit;
Give yourself ten thousand airs:
That with me shall break no squares.

XII. Never will I give advice,

Till you please to ask me thrice:
Which if you in scorn reject,
'Twill be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends,
And continue special friends.

THE REVOLUTION AT MARKET-HILL.

1730.

FROM distant regions Fortune sends
An odd triumvirate of friends;

Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend,
Where never yet a codling ripen'd:
Hither the frantic goddess draws
Three sufferers in a ruin'd cause:
By faction banish'd, here unite,

*

A Dean, a Spaniard, † and a knight;
Unite, but on conditions cruel;

The Dean and Spaniard find it too well,
Condemn'd to live in service hard;
On either side his honour's guard:
The Dean to guard his honour's back,
Must build a castle at Drumlack;
The Spaniard, sore against his will,
Must raise a fort at Market-Hill.
And thus the pair of humble gentry
At north and south are posted sentry;
While in his lordly castle fixt,
The knight triumphant reigns betwixt :
And, what the wretches most resent,
To be his slaves, must pay him rent;
Attend him daily as their chief,
Decant his wine, and carve his beef.

*Dr Swift.-F.

+ Col. Henry Leslie, who served and lived long in Spain. He was second son of the reverend Dr Charles Leslie, who wrote several theological works, which are very much admired, by the learned.-F.

Sir Arthur Acheson.-E.