The Dean And Duke

James Brydges[1]and the Dean had long been friends;
James is beduked; of course their friendship ends:
But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke,
For knowing James, to boast he knows the duke.
Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks,
Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,[2]
His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain
With bands of fiddlers to extend his train.
Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel,
The duke and dean seem near upon a level.
O! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry,
From bailiffs claws thou scarce couldst keep thy bum free.
A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown:
Thy brother[3](far thy better) wore a gown.
Well, but a duke thou art; so please the king:
O! would his majesty but add a string!

Jonathan Swift

Jonathan Swift was an Anglo-Irish satirist, essayist, political pamphleteer, poet and cleric who became Dean of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin. Swift is remembered for works such as "A Tale of a Tub" (1704), "An Argument Against Abolishing Christianity" (1712), and "Gulliver's Travels" (1726). Swift originally published all of his works under pseudonyms—such as Lemuel Gulliver, Isaac Bickerstaff, Drapier's Letters as MB Drapier—and works were sometimes attributed to Anonymous.

Jonathan Swift

An Epistle Upon An Epistle

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

On Carthy's Publishing Several Lampoons, Under The Names Of Infamous Poetasters (Epigram Against Carthy)

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Horace, Book II, Ode I, Paraphrased; Addressed To Richard Steele, Esq.

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Dr. Sheridan's Reply To The Dean

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

English

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To Dean Swift

BY SIR ARTHUR ACHESON. 1728


Good cause have I to sing and vapour,
For I am landlord to the Drapier:
He, that of every ear's the charmer,
Now condescends to be my farmer,
And grace my villa with his strains;
Lives such a bard on British plains?
No; not in all the British court;
For none but witlings there resort,
Whose names and works (though dead) are made
Immortal by the Dunciad;
And, sure as monument of brass,
Their fame to future times shall pass;
How, with a weakly warbling tongue,
Of brazen knight they vainly sung;
A subject for their genius fit;
He dares defy both sense and wit.
What dares he not? He can, we know it,
A laureat make that is no poet;
A judge, without the least pretence
To common law, or common sense;
A ...

Jonathan Swift

The Duke's Answer

BY DR. SWIFT (Dean Smedley's Petition To The Duke Of Grafton)


Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,
Where wit in all its glory shines;
Where compliments, with all their pride,
Are by their numbers dignified:
I hope to make you yet as clean
As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean.
I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall,
And may be something else withal;
And, were you not so good a writer,
I should present you with a mitre.
Write worse, then, if you can - be wise-
Believe me, 'tis the way to rise.
Talk not of making of thy nest:
Ah! never lay thy head to rest!
That head so well with wisdom fraught,
That writes without the toil of thought!
While others rack their busy brains,
You are not in the least at pains.
Down to your dean'ry now ...

Jonathan Swift

Imitation Of Part Of The Sixth Satire Of The Second Book Of Horace.[1]

I often wish'd that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a-year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land, set out to plant a wood.
    Well, now I have all this and more,
I ask not to increase my store;[2]
But should be perfectly content,
Could I but live on this side Trent;[3]
Nor cross the channel twice a-year,
To spend six months with statesmen here.
    I must by all means come to town,
'Tis for the service of the crown.
"Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up, take no excuse."
The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or let it cost a hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found,
It is but so much more in debt,
And that ...

Jonathan Swift

Dean Swift At Sir Arthur Acheson's In The North Of Ireland

The Dean would visit Market-Hill,
    Our invitation was but slight;
I said - "Why let him, if he will:"
    And so I bade Sir Arthur write.

His manners would not let him wait,
    Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
    And so we see him at our gate
    Three days before he was expected,

After a week, a month, a quarter,
    And day succeeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
    Though not a soul would have him stay.

I've said enough to make him blush,
    Methinks, or else the devil's in't;
But he cares not for it a rush,
    Nor for my life will take the hint.

But you, my dear, may let him know,
    In civil language, if he stays,
How deep and foul the roads may grow,
    And that he may command the ...

Jonathan Swift

Parody On A Character Of Dean Smedley, Written In Latin By Himself[1]

The very reverend Dean Smedley,
Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley,
Was equally allow'd to shine
As poet, scholar, and divine;
With godliness could well dispense,
Would be a rake, but wanted sense;
Would strictly after Truth inquire,
Because he dreaded to come nigh her.
For Liberty no champion bolder,
He hated bailiffs at his shoulder.
To half the world a standing jest,
A perfect nuisance to the rest;
From many (and we may believe him)
Had the best wishes they could give him.
To all mankind a constant friend,
Provided they had cash to lend.
One thing he did before he went hence,
He left us a laconic sentence,
By cutting of his phrase, and trimming
To prove that bishops were old women.
Poor Envy durst not show her phiz,
She was so ter...

Jonathan Swift

My Lady's[1] Lamentation And Complaint Against The Dean

JULY 28, 1728

Sure never did man see
A wretch like poor Nancy,
So teazed day and night
By a Dean and a Knight.
To punish my sins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe,
With Skinny and Snipe:[2],
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean.

The Dean never stops,
When he opens his chops;
I'm quite overrun
With rebus and pun.
    Before he came here,
To spunge for good cheer,
I sat with delight,
From morning till night,
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my old gums,
Or scratching my nose
And jogging my toes;
But at present, forsooth,
I must not rub a tooth.
When my elbows he sees
Held up by my knees,
My arms, like two props,
Supporting my chops,
And just as I handle 'em
Moving all like a...

Jonathan Swift