As Lord Carteret's residence in Ireland as Viceroy was a series of cabals against the authority of the Prime Minister, he failed not, as well from his love of literature as from his hatred to Walpole, to attach to himself as much as possible the distinguished author of the Drapier Letters. By the interest which Swift soon gained with the Lord-Lieutenant, he was enabled to recommend several friends, whose High Church or Tory principles had hitherto obstructed their preferment. The task of forwarding the views of Delany, in particular, led to several of Swift's liveliest poetical effusions, while, on the other hand, he was equally active in galling, by his satire, Smedley, and other Whig beaux esprits, who, during this amphibious administration, sought the favour of a literary Lord-Lieutenant, by literary offerings and poetical adulation. These pieces, with one or two connected with the same subject, are here thrown together, as they seem to reflect light upon each other.--_Scott._ AN APOLOGY TO LADY CARTERET A lady, wise as well as fair, Whose conscience always was her care, Thoughtful upon a point of moment, Would have the text as well as comment: So hearing of a grave divine, She sent to bid him come to dine. But, you must know he was not quite So grave as to be unpolite: Thought human learning would not lessen The dignity of his profession: And if you'd heard the man discourse, Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse. He long had bid the court farewell, Retreating silent to his cell; Suspected for the love he bore To one who sway'd some time before; Which made it more surprising how He should be sent for thither now. The message told, he gapes, and stares, And scarce believes his eyes or ears: Could not conceive what it should mean, And fain would hear it told again. But then the squire so trim and nice, 'Twere rude to make him tell it twice; So bow'd, was thankful for the honour; And would not fail to wait upon her. His beaver brush'd, his shoes, and gown, Away he trudges into town; Passes the lower castle yard, And now advancing to the guard, He trembles at the thoughts of state; For, conscious of his sheepish gait, His spirits of a sudden fail'd him; He stopp'd, and could not tell what ail'd him. What was the message I received? Why certainly the captain raved? To dine with her! and come at three! Impossible! it can't be me. Or maybe I mistook the word; My lady--it must be my lord. My lord 's abroad; my lady too: What must the unhappy doctor do? "Is Captain Cracherode[1] here, pray?"--"No." "Nay, then 'tis time for me to go." Am I awake, or do I dream? I'm sure he call'd me by my name; Named me as plain as he could speak; And yet there must be some mistake. Why, what a jest should I have been, Had now my lady been within! What could I've said? I'm mighty glad She went abroad--she'd thought me mad. The hour of dining now is past: Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast: And, since I 'scaped being made a scoff,