Such is the poet fresh in pay, The third night's profits of his play; His morning draughts till noon can swill Among his brethren of the quill: With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight, What poet e'er could take his flight? Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat What poet e'er could sing a note? Nor Pegasus could bear the load Along the high celestial road; The steed, oppress'd, would break his To raise the lumber from the earth. But view him in another scene, When all his drink is Hippocrene, His money spent, his patrons fail, His credit out for cheese and ale; His two-years' coat so smooth and Through every thread it lets in air With hungry meals his body pines His guts and belly full of wind; And like a jockey for a race, His flesh brought down to flying case: Now his exalted spirit loathes Encumbrances of food and clothes; And up he rises like a vapor, Supported high on wings of paper. He singing flies, and flying sings, While from below all Grub street rings. TWELVE ARTICLES. DEAN SWIFT. I. Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read, II. By disputing, I will never, To convince you once endeavor. III. When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you. IV. When I talk and you are heedless I will show no anger needless. V. When your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word. VI. When you furious argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue. VII. Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning. VIII. Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose. IX. You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget. X. You shall never hear me thunder, When you blunder on, and blunder. XI. Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs: That with me shall break no squares. XII. Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, 'T will be just as I expect. Thus we both shall have our ends And continue special friends. THE BEASTS' CONFESSION. DEAN SWIFT When beasts could speak (the learned say They still can do so every day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men. It happen'd, when a plague broke out (Which therefore made them more devout), The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That every subject in the land Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious Wolf begins: Good father, I must own with shame, That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbor wrong; Or ever went to seek my food, By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.