So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along; But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride. That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died. TO A BLOCKHEAD. You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come: Knock as you please, there's nobody at home. THE FOOL AND THE POET. Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet. EPIGRAMS OF DEAN SWIFT. ON BURNING A DULL POEM. An ass's hoof alone can hold That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. Methought when I this poem read, No vessel but an ass's head Such frigid fustian could contain; I mean the head without the brain. The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, Went down like stupefying draughts; I found my head begin to swim, A numbness crept through every limb. In haste, with imprecations dire, I threw the volume in the fire; When (who could think?) though cold as ice, It burnt to ashes in a trice. How could I more enhance its fame? Though born in snow, it died in flame. TO A LADY, On hearing her praise her husband. You always are making a god of your spouse; But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, And you adore him because he adores you. Your argument's weak, and so you will find, For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind. THE CUDGELED HUSBAND. As Thomas was cudgel'd one day by his wife, He took to his heels and fled for his life: Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventured to give him some sober advice- But Tom is a person of honor so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life; Went home, and was cudgeled again by his wife. ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS The sage, who said he should be proud Of windows in his breast, Because he ne'er a thought allow'd That might not be confest; His window scrawled by every rake, His breast again would cover, And fairly bid the devil take The diamond and the lover. ON SEEING THE BUSTS OP NEWTON, LOCKE, AND OTHERS, Placed by Queen Caroline in Richmond Hermitage. Louis the living learned fed, And raised the scientific head; Our frugal queen, to save her meat, Exalts the heads that cannot eat. ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER. Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapors; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not, we no danger see, And were they hang'd, there would no danger be. But we must silent be, amid our fears, And not believe our senses, but the Peers. So ravishers that know no sense of shame, First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame. ON ONE DELACOURT'S COMPLIMENTING CARTHY ON HIS POETRY.