However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: "Mrs. Dukes," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happen'd out: 'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a mouse; But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes a great hole in my wages: Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and everybody understands, That tho' 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands." "The devil take me," said she (blessing herself), "if ever I saw't!" So she roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had called her all to nought. So you know, what could I say to her any more? I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. man: "No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here anon. So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd, 66 "Parson," said I, can you cast a nativity when a body's plunder'd?" (Now you must know, he hates to be called parson, like the devil.) "Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil; If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see: "Law!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife, I never took one in your coat for a conjuror in all my life." With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, "Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away. Well: I thought I should have swoon'd, "Law!" said I, "what shall I do? I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!" Then my Lord called me: "Harry," said my Lord, "don't cry, I'll give you something towards your loss;" and, says my so will I." Lady, 66 "O, but," said I, "what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to ?" For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies,) I must peti tion you. The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' protection, And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter, With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: And then your poor petitioner both night and day, Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray. Jonathan Swift. CVI. WHEN thy beauty appears In its graces and airs, All bright as an angel new dropt.from the sky; At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, So strangely you dazzle my eye! But when, without art, Your kind thought you impart, When your love runs in blushes through every vein, When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, Then I know you're a woman again. There's a passion and pride In our sex, she replied, And this, might I gratify both, I would do: Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman to you. Thomas Parnell. CVII. STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1718. STELLA this day is thirty-four, O, would it please the gods to split With half your wit, your years, and size. How should I beg of gentle fate (That either nymph might have her swain) To split my worship too in twain. Jonathan Swift. CVIII. STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720. ALL travellers at first incline Now this is Stella's case in fact; Then who can think we'll quit the place, A truth, for which your soul should grieve; That you, and all your senseless tribe, Jonathan Swift. CIX. STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1724 As, when a beauteous nymph decays, We say, she's past her dancing days; So poets lose their feet by time, And can no longer dance in rhyme. Your annual bard had rather chose To celebrate your birth in prose: Yet merry folks, who want by chance A pair to make a country dance, Call the old housekeeper, and get her To fill a place, for want of better: While Sheridan is off the hooks, And friend Delany at his books, That Stella may avoid disgrace, Once more the Dean supplies their place Beauty and wit, too sad a truth! Have always been confined to youth; The god of wit, and beauty's queen, He twenty-one, and she fifteen. No poet ever sweetly sung, Unless he were, like Phoebus, young; Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, Am I a poet fit for you? . And, if the Muse deny her aid |