Some country squire to Lintot[17] goes, Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose." Says Lintot, "I have heard the name; He died a year ago."--"The same." He searches all the shop in vain. "Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;[18] I sent them with a load of books, Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. To fancy they could live a year! I find you're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past; The town has got a better taste; I keep no antiquated stuff, But spick and span I have enough. Pray do but give me leave to show 'em; Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem. This ode you never yet have seen, By Stephen Duck,[19] upon the queen. Then here's a letter finely penned Against the Craftsman and his friend: It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,[20] And Mr. Henley's last oration.[21] The hawkers have not got them yet: Your honour please to buy a set? "Here's Woolston's[22] tracts, the twelfth edition; 'Tis read by every politician: The country members, when in town, To all their boroughs send them down; You never met a thing so smart; The courtiers have them all by heart: Those maids of honour (who can read), Are taught to use them for their creed.[23] The rev'rend author's good intention Has been rewarded with a pension. He does an honour to his gown, By bravely running priestcraft down: He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, That Moses was a grand impostor; That all his miracles were cheats, Perform'd as jugglers do their feats: The church had never such a writer; A shame he has not got a mitre!" Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat. And while they toss my name about, With favour some, and some without, One, quite indiff'rent in the cause, My character impartial draws: The Dean, if we believe report, Was never ill receiv'd at court. As for his works in verse and prose I own myself no judge of those; Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em: But this I know, all people bought 'em. As with a moral view design'd To cure the vices of mankind: And, if he often miss'd his aim, The world must own it, to their shame, The praise is his, and theirs the blame. "Sir, I have heard another story: He was a most confounded Tory, And grew, or he is much belied, Extremely dull, before he died." Can we the Drapier then forget? Is not our nation in his debt? 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!-- "He should have left them for his betters, We had a hundred abler men, Nor need depend upon his pen.-- Say what you will about his reading, You never can defend his breeding; Who in his satires running riot, Could never leave the world in quiet; Attacking, when he took the whim, Court, city, camp--all one to him.-- "But why should he, except he slobber't, Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert,