Volume I Part 48 (2/2)

The moral is so plain to hit, That, had I been the G.o.d of wit, Then, in a saw-pit and wet weather, Should Young and Philips drudge together.

EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORGES,[1] AND LADY MEATH[2]

Under this stone lies d.i.c.k and Dolly.

Doll dying first, d.i.c.k grew melancholy; For d.i.c.k without Doll thought living a folly.

d.i.c.k lost in Doll a wife tender and dear: But d.i.c.k lost by Doll twelve hundred a-year; A loss that d.i.c.k thought no mortal could bear.

d.i.c.k sigh'd for his Doll, and his mournful arms cross'd; Thought much of his Doll, and the jointure he lost; The first vex'd him much, the other vex'd most.

Thus loaded with grief, d.i.c.k sigh'd and he cried: To live without both full three days he tried; But liked neither loss, and so quietly died.

d.i.c.k left a pattern few will copy after: Then, reader, pray shed some tears of salt water; For so sad a tale is no subject of laughter.

Meath smiles for the jointure, though gotten so late; The son laughs, that got the hard-gotten estate; And Cuffe[3] grins, for getting the Alicant plate.

Here quiet they lie, in hopes to rise one day, Both solemnly put in this hole on a Sunday, And here rest----_sic transit gloria mundi_!

[Footnote 1: Of Kilbrue, in the county of Meath.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Dorothy, dowager of Edward, Earl of Meath. She was married to the general in 1716, and died 10th April, 1728. Her husband survived her but two days.--_F_.

The Dolly of this epitaph is the same lady whom Swift satirized in his ”Conference between Sir Harry Pierce's Chariot and Mrs. Dorothy Stopford's Chair.” See _ante_, p.85.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: John Cuffe, of Desart, Esq., married the general's eldest daughter.--_F._]

VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT

My latest tribute here I send, With this let your collection end.

Thus I consign you down to fame A character to praise or blame: And if the whole may pa.s.s for true, Contented rest, you have your due.

Give future time the satisfaction, To leave one handle for detraction.

DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY

Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pa.s.s, That you, who know music no more than an a.s.s, That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and sc.r.a.pers?

To act such an opera once in a year, So offensive to every true Protestant ear, With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing, Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in, No Protestant Prelate, his lords.h.i.+p or grace, Durst there show his right, or most reverend face: How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets, To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets!

[The rest is wanting.]

AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION

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