Nor fame, nor censure they regarded;
They neither punish'd nor rewarded.
He cared not what the footman did;
Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid;
So every servant took his course;
And bad at first, they all grew worse.
Slothful disorder filled his stable;
And sluttish plenty deck'd her table.

Their beer was strong; their wine was port;
Their meal was large; their grace was short.
They gave the poor the remnant meat,
Just when it grew not fit to eat.

They paid the church and parish rate;
And took, but read not the receipt:
For which they claim their Sunday's due,
Of slumbering in an upper pew.

No man's defects sought they to know;
So never made themselves a foe,

No man's good deeds did they commend;
So never rais'd themselves a friend.
Nor cherish'd they relations poor;
That might decrease their present store:
Nor barn nor house did they repair;
That might oblige their future heir.

They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded.
Each Christmas they accompts did clear,
And wound their bottom round the year.
Nor tear or smile did they employ
At news of public grief or joy.

When bells were rung, and bonfires made,
If ask'd they ne'er denied their aid;
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died, or married.
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was depos'd, or crown'd.

Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;
They would not learn, nor could advise :
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,

They led-a kind of-as it were:

Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried: And so they liv'd, and so they died,

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY.

THE farmer's goose, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn and sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill;
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighboring pool!
Nor loudly cackles at the door;
For cackling shows the goose is poor.
But, when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common strays,
Hard exercise, and harder fare,

DEAN SWIFT.

Soon make my dame grow lank and spare;
Her body light, she tries her wings,

And scorns the ground, and upward springs,
While all the parish, as she flies,

Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.
Such is the poet fresh in pay,

The third night's profits of his play;
His morning draughts till noon can swill,
Among his brethren of the quill:
With good roast beef his belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull,
Deep sunk in plenty and delight,
What poet e'er could take his flight?

Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat,

What poet e'er could sing a note?

Nor Pegasus could bear the load
Along the high celestial road;

The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth,
To raise the lumber from the earth.
But view him in another scene,
When all his drink is Hippocrene,
His money spent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale;
His two-years' coat so smooth and bare,
Through every thread it lets in air;
With hungry meals his body pined,
His guts and belly full of wind;

And like a jockey for a race,

His flesh brought down to flying case:
Now his exalted spirit loathes
Encumbrances of food and clothes;
And up he rises like a vapor,
Supported high on wings of paper.
He singing flies, and flying sings,
While from below all Grub street rings.

TWELVE ARTICLES.

I.

LEST it may more quarrels breed,
I will never hear you read.

II.

By disputing, I will never,
To convince you once endeavor.

III.

When a paradox you stick to,
I will never contradict you.

IV.

When I talk and you are heedless,
I will show no anger needless.

V.

When your speeches are absurd,
I will ne'er object a word.

VI.

When you furious argue wrong,
I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII.

Not a jest or humorous story

Will I ever tell before ye:

To be chidden for explaining,

When you quite mistake the meaning.

DEAN SWIFT.

VIII.

Never more will I suppose,
You can taste my verse or prose.

IX.

You no more at me shall fret,
While I teach and you forget.

X.

You shall never hear me thunder,
When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI.

Show your poverty of spirit,
And in dress place all your merit;
Give yourself ten thousand airs:
That with me shall break no squares.

XII.

Never will I give advice,

Till you please to ask me thrice:

Which if you in scorn reject,

"T will be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends,

And continue special friends.

THE BEASTS' CONFESSION.

DEAN SWIFT.

WHEN beasts could speak (the learned say

They still can do so every day),

It seems, they had religion then,

As much as now we find in men.

It happen'd, when a plague broke out
(Which therefore made them more devout),
The king of brutes (to make it plain,
Of quadrupeds I only mean)
By proclamation gave command,
That every subject in the land

Should to the priest confess their sins;
And thus the pious Wolf begins:
Good father, I must own with shame,
That often I have been to blame:
I must confess, on Friday last,
Wretch that I was! I broke my fast:
But I defy the basest tongue

To prove

I did my neighbor wrong; Or ever went to seek my food, By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood. The Ass approaching next, confess'd, That in his heart he loved a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe : But yet the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin and shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he has, is sorry for 't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the king: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he 's the nightingale of brutes.

The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In every turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbor ne'er was found; His vigilance might some displease; 'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.

The mimic Ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter; Much of the censuring world complain'd, Who said, his gravity was feign'd: Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: