DR. SWIFT WROTE THE FOLLOWING EPIGRAM

On one Delacourt’s complimenting Carthy on his Poetry

Carthy, you say, writes well—­his genius true,
You pawn your word for him—­he’ll vouch for you. 
So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail,
To cheat the world, become each other’s bail.

POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. SHERIDAN

Some ancient authors wisely write,
That he who drinks will wake at night,
Will never fail to lose his rest,
And feel a streightness in his chest;
A streightness in a double sense,
A streightness both of breath and pence: 
Physicians say, it is but reasonable,
He that comes home at hour unseasonable,
(Besides a fall and broken shins,
Those smaller judgments for his sins;)
If, when he goes to bed, he meets
A teasing wife between the sheets,
’Tis six to five he’ll never sleep,
But rave and toss till morning peep. 
Yet harmless Betty must be blamed
Because you feel your lungs inflamed
But if you would not get a fever,
You never must one moment leave her. 
This comes of all your drunken tricks,
Your Parry’s and your brace of Dicks;
Your hunting Helsham in his laboratory
Too, was the time you saw that Drab lac a Pery
But like the prelate who lives yonder-a,
And always cries he is like Cassandra;
I always told you, Mr. Sheridan,
If once this company you were rid on,
Frequented honest folk, and very few,
You’d live till all your friends were weary of you. 
But if rack punch you still would swallow,
I then forewarn’d you what would follow. 
Are the Deanery sober hours? 
Be witness for me all ye powers. 
The cloth is laid at eight, and then
We sit till half an hour past ten;
One bottle well might serve for three
If Mrs. Robinson drank like me. 
Ask how I fret when she has beckon’d
To Robert to bring up a second;
I hate to have it in my sight,
And drink my share in perfect spite. 
If Robin brings the ladies word,
The coach is come, I ’scape a third;
If not, why then I fall a-talking
How sweet a night it is for walking;
For in all conscience, were my treasure able,
I’d think a quart a-piece unreasonable;
It strikes eleven,—­get out of doors.—­
This is my constant farewell
  Yours,
    J. S.

October 18, 1724, nine in the morning.

You had best hap yourself up in a chair, and dine with me than with the provost.

LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW[1] IN THE EPISCOPAL PALACE AT KILMORE

Resolve me this, ye happy dead,
Who’ve lain some hundred years in bed,
From every persecution free
That in this wretched life we see;
Would ye resume a second birth,
And choose once more to live on earth?