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THE POEMS • II
Beside all this, deep scholars know,
That the main string of Cupid’s bow,
Once on a time was an a – gut;
Now to a nobler offi ce put,
By favour or desert preferr’d
From giving passage to a t – ;
But still, though fi x’d among the stars,
Does sympathize with human a – .
Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech,
Conclude love’s bow-string at full stretch,
Till the kind looseness comes, and then,
Conclude the bow relax’d again.
And now, the ladies all are bent,
To try the great experiment,
Ambitious of a regent’s heart,
Spread all their charms to catch a f –
Watching the fi rst unsavoury wind,
Some ply before, and some behind.
My lord, on fi re amid the dames,
F – ts like a laurel in the fl ames.
The fair approach the speaking part,
To try the back-way to his heart.
For, as when we a gun discharge,
Although the bore be none so large,
Before the fl ame from muzzle burst,
Just at the breech it fl ashes fi rst;
So from my lord his passion broke,
He f – d fi rst and then he spoke.
The ladies vanish in the smother,
To confer notes with one another;
61
JONATHAN SWIFT
And now they all agreed to name
Whom each one thought the happy dame.
Quoth Neal, whate’er the rest may think,
I’m sure ‘twas I that smelt the stink.
You smell the stink! by G – d, you lie,
Quoth Ross, for I’ll be sworn ‘twas I.
Ladies, quoth Levens, pray forbear;
Let’s not fall out; we all had share;
And, by the most I can discover,
My lord’s a universal lover.
THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER
As mastiff dogs, in modern phrase, are
Call’d Pompey, Scipio, and Caesar;
As pies and daws are often styl’d
With Christian nicknames, like a child;
As we say Monsieur to an ape,
Without offence to human shape;
So men have got, from bird and brute,
Names that would best their nature suit.
The Lion, Eagle, Fox, and Boar,
Were heroes’ titles heretofore,
Bestow’d as hi’roglyphics fi t
To show their valour, strength, or wit:
For what is understood by fame,
Besides the getting of a name?
But, e’er since men invented guns,
A diff’rent way their fancy runs:
To paint a hero, we inquire
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THE POEMS • II
For something that will conquer fi re.
Would you describe Turenne or Trump?
Think of a bucket or a pump.
Are these too low? – then fi nd out grander,
Call my LORD CUTTS a Salamander.
‘Tis well; – but since we live among
Detractors with an evil tongue,
Who may object against the term,
Pliny shall prove what we affi rm:
Pliny shall prove, and we’ll apply,
And I’ll be judg’d by standers by.
First, then, our author has defi ned
This reptile of the serpent kind,
With gaudy coat, and shining train;
But loathsome spots his body stain:
Out from some hole obscure he fl ies,
When rains descend, and tempests rise,
Till the sun clears the air; and then
Crawls back neglected to his den.
So, when the war has raised a storm,
I’ve seen a snake in human form,
All stain’d with infamy and vice,
Leap from the dunghill in a trice,
Burnish and make a gaudy show,
Become a general, peer, and beau,
Till peace has made the sky serene,
Then shrink into its hole again.
“All this we grant – why then, look yonder,
Sure that must be a Salamander!”
Further, we are by Pliny told,
This serpent is extremely cold;
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JONATHAN SWIFT
So cold, that, put it in the fi re,
‘Twill make the very fl ames expire:
Besides, it spues a fi lthy froth
(Whether thro’ rage or lust or both)
Of matter purulent and white,
Which, happening on the skin to light,
And there corrupting to a wound,
Spreads leprosy and baldness round.
So have I seen a batter’d beau,
By age and claps grown cold as snow,
Whose breath or touch, where’er he came,
Blew out love’s torch, or chill’d the fl ame:
And should some nymph, who ne’er was cruel,
Like Carleton cheap, or famed Du-Ruel,
Receive the fi lth which he ejects,
She soon would fi nd the same effects
Her tainted carcass to pursue,
As from the Salamander’s spue;
A dismal shedding of her locks,
And, if no leprosy, a pox.
“Then I’ll appeal to each bystander,
If this be not a Salamander?”
TO CHARLES MORDAUNT,
EARL OF PETERBOROUGH
Mordanto fi lls the trump of fame,
The Christian world his deeds proclaim,
And prints are crowded with his name.
64
THE POEMS • II
In journeys he outrides the post,
Sits up till midnight with his host,
Talks politics, and gives the toast.
Knows every prince in Europe's face,
Flies like a squib from place to place,
And travels not, but runs a race.
From Paris gazette à-la-main,
This day arriv’d, without his train,
Mordanto in a week from Spain.
A messenger comes all a-reek
Mordanto at Madrid to seek;
He left the town above a week.
Next day the post-boy winds his horn,
And rides through Dover in the morn:
Mordanto’s landed from Leghorn.
Mordanto gallops on alone,
The roads are with his followers strewn,
This breaks a girth, and that a bone;
His body active as his mind,
Returning sound in limb and wind,
Except some leather lost behind.
A skeleton in outward fi gure,
His meagre corps, though full of vigour,
Would halt behind him, were it bigger.
So wonderful his expedition,
When you have not the least suspicion,
He’s with you like an apparition.
Shines in all climates like a star;
In senates bold, and fi erce in war;
A land commander, and a tar:
65
JONATHAN SWIFT
Heroic actions early bred in,
Ne’er to be match’d in modern reading,
But by his namesake, Charles of Sweden.
ON THE UNION
The queen has lately lost a part
Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH heart,
For want of which, by way of botch,
She pieced it up again with SCOTCH.
Blest revolution! which creates
Divided hearts, united states!
See how the double nation lies,
Like a rich coat with skirts of frize:
As if a man, in making posies,
Should bundle thistles up with roses.
Who ever yet a union saw
Of kingdoms without faith or law?
Henceforward let no statesman dare
A kingdom to a ship compare;
Lest he should call our commonweal
A vessel with a double keel:
Which, just like ours, new rigg’d and mann’d,
And got about a league from land,
By change of wind to leeward side,
The pilot knew not how to guide.
So tossing faction will o’erwhelm
Our crazy double-bottom’d realm.
66
THE POEMS • II
ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD
OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY
When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat
To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and
found, far in a
country scene,
Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene:
From which ingredients fi rst the dext’rous boy
Pick’d the demure, the awkward, and the coy.
The Graces from the court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride:
These Venus cleans’d from ev’ry spurious grain
Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain.
Jove mix’d up all, and the best clay employ’d;
Then call’d the happy composition FLOYD.
THE REVERSE
(TO SWIFT’S VERSES ON BIDDY FLOYD);
OR, MRS. CLUDD
Venus one day, as story goes,
But for what reason no man knows,
In sullen mood and grave deport,
Trudged it away to Jove’s high court;
And there his Godship did entreat
To look out for his best receipt:
And make a monster strange and odd,
67
JONATHAN SWIFT
Abhorr’d by man and every god.
Jove, ever kind to all the fair,
Nor e’er refused a lady’s prayer,
Straight oped ‘scrutoire, and forth he took
A neatly bound and well-gilt book;
Sure sign that nothing enter’d there,
But what was very choice and rare.
Scarce had he turn’d a page or two, –
It might be more, for aught I knew;
But, be the matter more or less,
‘Mong friends ‘twill break no squares, I guess.
Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he,
Here’s one will fi t you to a T.
But, as the writing doth prescribe,
‘Tis fi t the ingredients we provide.
Away he went, and search’d the stews,
And every street about the Mews;
Diseases, impudence, and lies,
Are found and brought him in a trice.
From Hackney then he did provide,
A clumsy air and awkward pride;
From lady’s toilet next he brought
Noise, scandal, and malicious thought.
These Jove put in an old close-stool,
And with them mix’d the vain, the fool.
But now came on his greatest care,
Of what he should his paste prepare;
For common clay or fi ner mould
Was much too good, such stuff to hold.
At last he wisely thought on mud;
68
So raised it up, and call’d it – Cludd.
With this, the lady well content,
Low curtsey’d, and away she went.
APOLLO OUTWITTED
TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. FINCH,
UNDER HER NAME OF ARDELIA
Phoebus, now short’ning every shade,
Up to the northern tropic came,
And thence beheld a lovely maid,
Attending on a royal dame.
The god laid down his feeble rays,
Then lighted from his glitt’ring coach;
But fenc’d his head with his own bays,
Before he durst the nymph approach.
Under those sacred leaves, secure
From common lightning of the skies,
He fondly thought he might endure
The fl ashes of Ardelia’s eyes.
The nymph, who oft had read in books
Of that bright god whom bards invoke,
Soon knew Apollo by his looks,
And guess’d his business ere he spoke.
He, in the old celestial cant,
Confess’d his fl ame, and swore by Styx,
Whate’er she would desire, to grant –
But wise Ardelia knew his tricks.
THE POEMS • II
69
JONATHAN SWIFT
Ovid had warn’d her to beware
Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is,
Under pretence of taking air,
To pick up sublunary ladies.
Howe’er, she gave no fl at denial,
As having malice in her heart;
And was resolv’d upon a trial,
To cheat the god in his own art.
“Hear my request,” the virgin said;
“Let which I please of all the Nine
Attend, whene’er I want their aid,
Obey my call, and only mine.”
By vow oblig’d, by passion led,
The god could not refuse her prayer:
He way’d his wreath thrice o’er her head,
Thrice mutter’d something to the air.
And now he thought to seize his due;
But she the charm already try’d:
Thalia heard the call, and fl ew
To wait at bright Ardelia’s side.
On sight of this celestial prude,
Apollo thought it vain to stay;
Nor in her presence durst be rude,
But made his leg and went away.
He hop’d to fi nd some lucky hour,
When on their queen the Muses wait;
But Pallas owns Ardelia’s power:
For vows divine are kept by Fate.
Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke:
“Deceitful nymph! I see thy art;
And, though I can’t my gift revoke,
I’ll disappoint its nobler part.
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