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His empty paunch that he might fill,
He fuck'd his victuals thro' a quill;
Untouch'd it pafs'd between his grinders,
Or't had been happy for gold-finders:
He cock'd his hat, you would have faid
Mambrino's helm adorn'd his head :
Whene'er he chanc'd his hands to lay
On magazines of corn or bay,
Gold ready coin'd appear'd, instead
Of paltry provender and bread;
Hence by wife farmers we are told,
Old bay is equal to old gold;
And hence a critic deep maintains,
We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains.
THIS fool had got a lucky hit;
And people fancy'd he had wit.
Two gods their skill in mufic try'd,
And both chofe Midas to decide;
He against Phoebus' harp decreed,
And gave
it for Pan's oaten reed:

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examples of this rule; which will be illuftrated by changing the ftructure, so as to remove the accent from the first syllable to the Jecond. If instead of,

Glitter'd like Spangles on the ground,

the fourth verfe be read,

Like Spangles glitter'd on the ground;

the ear will eafily determine which fhould be preferred. It is however true, that when the accent is placed on the first fyllable, and repeated at the fecond, the measure is not only harmonious, but acquires a peculiar force. The eleventh verfe is of this kind,

Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders;

which would be greatly enfeebled, by changing it to

It pafs'd untouch'd between his grinders;

tho' the cadence would still be poetical, as the first accent would fall on the fecond fyllable. Hawkef.

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The god of wit, to fhew his grudge,
Clapt affes' ears upon the judge;

A goodly pair erect and wide,

Which he could neither gild nor hide.

AND now the virtue of his hands

Was loft among Pactolus' fands,
Against whose torrent while he fwims,
The golden fcurf peels off his limbs:

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To whom from Midas down defcends
That virtue in the fingers ends.
What elfe by perquifites are meant,

By penfions, bribes, and three per cent.

By places and commiffis fold,

And turning dung itself to gold?
By ftarving in the midft of ftore,
As t'other Midas did before ?

NONE e'er did modern Midas chafe

Subject or patron of his mufe,

But found him thus their merit fcan,
That Phoebus must give place to Pan:
He values not the poet's praise,

*

Nor will exchange his plumbs for bays:
To Pan alone rich mifers call ;
And there's the jeft, for Pan is ALL.-
Here English wits will be to feek,
Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek.

BESIDES, it plainly now appears
Our Midas too hath affes' ears;

A cant word for 100,000 l. Dub. edit.

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Where ev'ry fool his mouth applies,

And whispers in a thousand lies.;
Such grofs delufions could not pass
Thro' any ears but of an ass.

BUT gold defiles with frequent touch;
There's nothing fouls the hand so much:
And fcholars give it for the cause

65

Of British Midas' dirty paws;

70

Which while the Senate trove to fcour,

They wash'd away the chymic power.

WHILE he his utmost strength apply'd,

75

To fwim againft this pop'lar tide,
The golden fpoils flew off apace;
Here fell a penfion, there a place:
The torrent merciless imbibes
Commiffions, perquifites, and bribes ;

By their own weight funk to the bottom;
Much good may't do 'em that have caught 'em.
And Midas now neglected ftands

With affes' ears and dirty bands.

The Rev. Dr SHERIDAN to Dr SWIFT.

Written in the year 1712.

DEAR Dean, fince in cruxes and puns you and I deal,

Pray why is a woman a fieve and a riddle?

"Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning, In bed as I lay, Sir, a toffing and turning.

You'll find, if you read but a few of your hiftories, 5
All women as Eve, all women are myfteries.
To find out this riddle I know you'll be eager,
And make every one of the sex a Bel-phagor.
But that will not do, for I mean to commend 'em :
I swear without jest I an honour intend them.
In a fieve, Sir, their antient extraction I quite tell,
In a riddle I give you their power and their title.

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This I told you before, do you know what I mean, Sir?
*Not 1, by my troth; Sir.- -Then read it again, Sir
The reafon I fend you thefe lines of rhymes double, 19
Is purely thro' pity to fave you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last;
When your Pegasus canter'd in triple, and rid fast.

20

As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnaffus, With Phoebus's leave, to run with his affes, He goes flow and fure, and he never is jaded; While your fiery fteed is whipp'd, fpurr'd, baftinaded.

Dean SWIFT's answer to the Reverend Dr SHERIDAN.

SIR,

N reading your letter alone in my hackney,

Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh.
And when with much labour the matter I crackt,
I found you mistaken in matter of fact.

A woman's no fieve (for with that you begin),
Because fhe lets out more than e'er fhe takes in.
And that she's a riddle, can never be right;
For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light..
But grant her a fieve, I can fay fomething archer;
Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher.

5

10

Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation, What name for a maid†, was the first man's damnation? If your Worship will pleafe to explain me this rebus,' I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phoebus.

From my backney-coach, Sept. 11.

1712, past 12. at noon.

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A LETTER to the Rev. Dr SHERIDAN.

SIR,

WE

Written in the year 1718.

HATE'ER your predeceffors taught us,
I have a great esteem for Plautus;

And think your boys may gather there-hence
More wit and humour than from Terence.
But as to comic Ariftophanes,

The rogue too bawdy and too profane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis,

Down in the Strand* juft where the new pole is ;
For I can tell you one thing, that I can,

You will not find it in the Vatican.

He and Cratinus used, as Horace fays,

5

10

To take his greatest grandees for affes..

Poets, in those days, ufed to venture high;
But these are loft full many a century.

A

THUS you may fee, dear friend, ex pede hence 15My judgment of the old comedians.

PROCEED to tragics, firft Euripides

(An author where I fometimes dip a-days)
Is rightly cenfur'd by the Stagirite,
Who fays his numbers do not fadge aright.
A friend of mine that author defpifes

So much, he fwears the very best piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's ;
And that a woman, in those tragedies, ·
Commonly speaking, but a fad jade is.
At least, I'm well ailur'd, that no folk lays
That weight on him, they do on Sophocles.
But above all I prefer Æfchylus,

Whofe moving touches, when they please, kill us.

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25

N. B. The Strand in London. The fact may be false, bus the rhyme eoit me fome trouble,

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