When jests are carried on too far,
And the loud laugh begins the war,
You keep your countenance for shame,
Yet still you think your friend to blame;
For though men cry they love a jest,
’Tis but when others stand the test;
And (would you have their meaning known)
They love a jest when ’tis their own. 
  You wonder now to see me write
So gravely where the subject’s light;
Some part of what I here design
Regards a friend[3] of yours and mine;
Who full of humour, fire, and wit,
Not always judges what is fit,
But loves to take prodigious rounds,
And sometimes walks beyond his bounds,
You must, although the point be nice,
Venture to give him some advice;
Few hints from you will set him right,
And teach him how to be polite. 
Bid him like you, observe with care,
Whom to be hard on, whom to spare;
Nor indiscreetly to suppose
All subjects like Dan Jackson’s[4] nose. 
To study the obliging jest,
By reading those who teach it best;
For prose I recommend Voiture’s,
For verse (I speak my judgment) yours. 
He’ll find the secret out from thence,
To rhyme all day without offence;
And I no more shall then accuse
The flirts of his ill-manner’d Muse. 
  If he be guilty, you must mend him;
  If he be innocent, defend him.

[Footnote 1:  The Rev. Patrick Delany, one of Swift’s most valued friends, born about 1685.  When Lord Carteret became Lord Lieutenant, Swift urged Delany’s claims to preferment, and he was appointed Chancellor of St. Patrick’s.  He appears to have been warm-hearted and impetuous, and too hospitable for his means.  He died at Bath, 1768.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 2:  Famous as poet and letter writer, born 1598, died 1648.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 3:  Dr. Sheridan.]

[Footnote 4:  Mentioned in “The Country Life,” as one of that lively party, post, p. 137.—­W.  E. B.]

AN ELEGY[1]

ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR, THE USURER;
WHO DIED ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 1720

Know all men by these presents, Death, the tamer,
By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar;
Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound
Redeem him from his prison underground. 
His heirs might well, of all his wealth possesst
Bestow, to bury him, one iron chest. 
Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know
His faithful steward in the shades below. 
He walk’d the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak;
He din’d and supp’d at charge of other folk: 
And by his looks, had he held out his palms,
He might be thought an object fit for alms. 
So, to the poor if he refus’d his pelf,
He us’d ’em full as kindly as himself. 
  Where’er he went, he never saw his betters;
Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors;
And under hand and seal, the Irish nation