In Egypt turn’d the dust to lice;
And as our sects, by all descriptions,
Have hearts more harden’d than Egyptians
As from the trodden dust they spring,
And, turn’d to lice, infest the king: 
For pity’s sake, it would be just,
A rod should turn them back to dust. 
  Let folks in high or holy stations
Be proud of owning such relations;
Let courtiers hug them in their bosom,
As if they were afraid to lose ’em: 
While I, with humble Job, had rather
Say to corruption—­“Thou’rt my father.” 
For he that has so little wit
To nourish vermin, may be bit.

[Footnote 1:  These lines were the cause of the personal attack upon the Dean.  See “Prose Works,” iv, pp. 27,261. _—­W.  E. B._]

[Footnote 2:  Henry Singleton, Esq., then prime sergeant, afterwards lord-chief-justice of the common pleas, which he resigned, and was some time after made master of the rolls.—­F.]

BETTESWORTH’S EXULTATION

UPON HEARING THAT HIS NAME WOULD BE TRANSMITTED TO POSTERITY
IN DR. SWIFT’S WORKS. 
BY WILLIAM DUNKIN

Well! now, since the heat of my passion’s abated,
That the Dean hath lampoon’d me, my mind is elated:—­
Lampoon’d did I call it?—­No—­what was it then? 
What was it?—­’Twas fame to be lash’d by his pen: 
For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till
E’en doomsday, a poor insignificant reptile;
Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull, and inglorious,
Obscure, and unheard of—­but now I’m notorious: 
Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one;
The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one: 
If the end be obtain’d ’tis equal what portal
I enter, since I’m to be render’d immortal: 
So clysters applied to the anus, ’tis said,
By skilful physicians, give ease to the head—­
Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard,
A man is a man, though he should be a bastard. 
Why sure ’tis some comfort that heroes should slay us,
If I fall, I would fall by the hand of AEneas;
And who by the Drapier would not rather damn’d be,
Than demigoddized by madrigal Namby?[1]
  A man is no more who has once lost his breath;
But poets convince us there’s life after death. 
They call from their graves the king, or the peasant;
Re-act our old deeds, and make what’s past present: 
And when they would study to set forth alike,
So the lines be well drawn, and the colours but strike,
Whatever the subject be, coward or hero,
A tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero;
To a judge ’tis all one which he fixes his eye on,
And a well-painted monkey’s as good as a lion.

[Footnote 1:  Ambrose Philips.  See ante, vol. i, p. 288.—­W.  E. B.]

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