The soldier smiling hears the widow's cries, And stabs the son before the mother's eyes. With like remorse his brother of the trade, The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade. The statesman rakes the town to find a plot, And dreams of forfeitures by treason got. Nor less Tom-t--d-man, of true statesman mould, Collects the city filth in search of gold. Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees, And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees. His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job, Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob. The kind physician grants the husband's prayers, Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs. The sleeping hangman ties the fatal noose, Nor unsuccessful waits for dead men's shoes. The grave divine, with knotty points perplext, As if he were awake, nods o'er his text: While the sly mountebank attends his trade, Harangues the rabble, and is better paid. The hireling senator of modern days Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise: And Dick, the scavenger, with equal grace Flirts from his cart the mud in Walpole's face. [Footnote 1: "Somnia quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, Non delubra deum nec ab aethere numina mittunt, Sed sibi quisque facit."] [Footnote 2: "Nam cum prostrata sopore Urguet membra quies et mens sine pondere ludit, Quidquid luce fuit, tenebris agit."--_W. E. B._] SENT BY DR. DELANY TO DR. SWIFT, IN ORDER TO BE ADMITTED TO SPEAK TO HIM WHEN HE WAS DEAF. 1724 Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard, Your ears and doors should both be barr'd. Can anything be more unkind? Must I not see, 'cause you are blind? Methinks a friend at night should cheer you,-- A friend that loves to see and hear you. Why am I robb'd of that delight, When you can be no loser by't Nay, when 'tis plain (for what is plainer?) That if you heard you'd be no gainer? For sure you are not yet to learn, That hearing is not your concern. Then be your doors no longer barr'd: Your business, sir, is to be heard. THE ANSWER