Sunderland’s run out of his wits, And Dismal double Dismal looks; Wharton can only swear by fits, And strutting Hal is off the hooks; Old Godolphin, full of spleen, Made false moves, and lost his Queen: Harry look'd fierce, and shook his ragged mane: But a Prince of high renown Swore he'd rather lose a crown, "Than the Queen should enjoy her own again." Our merchant-ships may cut the line, And not be snapt by privateers. And commoners who love good wine Will drink it now as well as peers: Landed men shall have their rent, Yet our stocks rise _cent, per cent._ The Dutch from hence shall no more millions drain: We'll bring on us no more debts, Nor with bankrupts fill gazettes; "And the Queen shall enjoy her own again." The towns we took ne'er did us good: What signified the French to beat? We spent our money and our blood, To make the Dutchmen proud and great: But the Lord of Oxford swears, Dunkirk never shall be theirs. The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain; But true Englishmen may fill A good health to General Hill: "For the Queen now enjoys her own again." HORACE, EPIST. I, VII IMITATION OF HORACE TO LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1] Harley, the nation's great support, Returning home one day from court, His mind with public cares possest, All Europe's business in his breast, Observed a parson near Whitehall, Cheap'ning old authors on a stall. The priest was pretty well in case, And show'd some humour in his face; Look'd with an easy, careless mien, A perfect stranger to the spleen; Of size that might a pulpit fill, But more inclining to sit still. My lord, (who, if a man may say't, Loves mischief better than his meat), Was now disposed to crack a jest And bid friend Lewis[2] go in quest. (This Lewis was a cunning shaver, And very much in Harley's favour)-- In quest who might this parson be, What was his name, of what degree; If possible, to learn his story, And whether he were Whig or Tory. Lewis his patron's humour knows; Away upon his errand goes, And quickly did the matter sift; Found out that it was Doctor Swift, A clergyman of special note For shunning those of his own coat; Which made his brethren of the gown Take care betimes [3] to run him down: No libertine, nor over nice, Addicted to no sort of vice; Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought; Not rich, but owed no man a groat; In state opinions à la mode, He hated Wharton like a toad; Had given the faction many a wound, And libell'd all the junto round; Kept company with men of wit, Who often father'd what he writ: His works were hawk'd in ev'ry street, But seldom rose above a sheet: Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp Did very much his genius cramp; And, since he could not spend his fire, He now intended[4] to retire. Said Harley, "I desire to know From his own mouth, if this be so: Step to the doctor straight, and say, I'd have him dine with me to-day." Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant,