A PANEGYRIC ON THE DEAN

IN THE PERSON OF A LADY IN THE NORTH [l] 1730

Resolved my gratitude to show,
Thrice reverend Dean, for all I owe,
Too long I have my thanks delay’d;
Your favours left too long unpaid;
But now, in all our sex’s name,
My artless Muse shall sing your fame. 
  Indulgent you to female kind,
To all their weaker sides are blind: 
Nine more such champions as the Dean
Would soon restore our ancient reign;
How well to win the ladies’ hearts,
You celebrate their wit and parts! 
How have I felt my spirits raised,
By you so oft, so highly praised! 
Transform’d by your convincing tongue
To witty, beautiful, and young,
I hope to quit that awkward shame,
Affected by each vulgar dame,
To modesty a weak pretence;
And soon grow pert on men of sense;
To show my face with scornful air;
Let others match it if they dare. 
  Impatient to be out of debt,
O, may I never once forget
The bard who humbly deigns to chuse
Me for the subject of his Muse! 
Behind my back, before my nose,
He sounds my praise in verse and prose. 
  My heart with emulation burns,
To make you suitable returns;
My gratitude the world shall know;
And see, the printer’s boy below;
Ye hawkers all, your voices lift;
“A Panegyric on Dean Swift!”
And then, to mend the matter still,
“By Lady Anne of Market-Hill!"[2]
  I thus begin:  My grateful Muse
Salutes the Dean in different views;
Dean, butler, usher, jester, tutor;
Robert and Darby’s[3] coadjutor;
And, as you in commission sit,
To rule the dairy next to Kit;[4]
In each capacity I mean
To sing your praise.  And first as Dean: 
Envy must own, you understand your
Precedence, and support your grandeur: 
Nor of your rank will bate an ace,
Except to give Dean Daniel[5] place. 
In you such dignity appears,
So suited to your state and years! 
With ladies what a strict decorum! 
With what devotion you adore ’em! 
Treat me with so much complaisance,
As fits a princess in romance! 
By your example and assistance,
The fellows learn to know their distance. 
Sir Arthur, since you set the pattern,
No longer calls me snipe and slattern,
Nor dares he, though he were a duke,
Offend me with the least rebuke. 
  Proceed we to your preaching [5] next! 
How nice you split the hardest text! 
How your superior learning shines
Above our neighbouring dull divines! 
At Beggar’s Opera not so full pit
Is seen as when you mount our pulpit. 
  Consider now your conversation: 
Regardful of your age and station,
You ne’er were known by passion stirr’d
To give the least offensive word: 
But still, whene’er you silence break,
Watch every syllable you speak: 
Your style so clear, and so concise,
We never ask to hear you twice.