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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426360" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Horace, Epist. I, VII Imitation Of Horace To Lord Oxford</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Harley, the nation's great support,<br>Returning home one day from court,<br>His mind with public cares possest,<br>All Europe's business in his breast,<br>Observed a parson near Whitehall,<br>Cheap'ning old authors on a stall.<br>The priest was pretty well in case,<br>And show'd some humour in his face;<br>Look'd with an easy, careless mien,<br>A perfect stranger to the spleen;<br>Of size that might a pulpit fill,<br>But more inclining to sit still.<br>My lord, (who, if a man may say't,<br>Loves mischief better than his meat),<br>Was now disposed to crack a jest<br>And bid friend Lewis go in quest.<br>(This Lewis was a cunning shaver,<br>And very much in Harley's favour)—<br>In quest who might this parson be,<br>What was his name, of what degree;<br>If possible, to learn his story,<br>And whether he were Whig or Tory.<br>Lewis his patron's humour knows;<br>Away upon his errand goes,<br>And quickly did the matter sift;<br>Found out that it was Doctor Swift,<br>A clergyman of special note<br>For shunning those of his own coat;<br>Which made his brethren of the gown<br>Take care betimes to run him down:<br>No libertine, nor over nice,<br>Addicted to no sort of vice;<br>Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought;<br>Not rich, but owed no man a groat;<br>In state opinions a la mode,<br>He hated Wharton like a toad;<br>Had given the faction many a wound,<br>And libell'd all the junto round;<br>Kept company with men of wit,<br>Who often father'd what he writ:<br>His works were hawk'd in ev'ry street,<br>But seldom rose above a sheet:<br>Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp<br>Did very much his genius cramp;<br>And, since he could not spend his fire,<br>He now intended to retire.<br>Said Harley, 'I desire to know<br>From his own mouth, if this be so:<br>Step to the doctor straight, and say,<br>I'd have him dine with me to-day.'<br>Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant,<br>Nor could believe my lord had sent;<br>So never offer'd once to stir,<br>But coldly said, 'Your servant, sir!'<br>'Does he refuse me?' Harley cry'd:<br>'He does; with insolence and pride.'<br>Some few days after, Harley spies<br>The doctor fasten'd by the eyes<br>At Charing-cross, among the rout,<br>Where painted monsters are hung out:<br>He pull'd the string, and stopt his coach,<br>Beck'ning the doctor to approach.<br>Swift, who could neither fly nor hide,<br>Came sneaking to the chariot side,<br>And offer'd many a lame excuse:<br>He never meant the least abuse—<br>'My lord—the honour you design'd—<br>Extremely proud—but I had dined—<br>I am sure I never should neglect—<br>No man alive has more respect'—<br>Well, I shall think of that no more,<br>If you'll be sure to come at four.'<br>The doctor now obeys the summons,<br>Likes both his company and commons;<br>Displays his talent, sits till ten;<br>Next day invited, comes again;<br>Soon grows domestic, seldom fails,<br>Either at morning or at meals;<br>Came early, and departed late;<br>In short, the gudgeon took the bait.<br>My lord would carry on the jest,<br>And down to Windsor takes his guest.<br>Swift much admires the place and air,<br>And longs to be a Canon there;<br>In summer round the Park to ride,<br>In winter—never to reside.<br>A Canon!—that's a place too mean:<br>No, doctor, you shall be a Dean;<br>Two dozen canons round your stall,<br>And you the tyrant o'er them all:<br>You need but cross the Irish seas,<br>To live in plenty, power, and ease.<br>Poor Swift departed, and, what's worse,<br>With borrow'd money in his purse,<br>Travels at least a hundred leagues,<br>And suffers numberless fatigues.<br>Suppose him now a dean complete,<br>Demurely lolling in his seat,<br>And silver verge, with decent pride,<br>Stuck underneath his cushion side.<br>Suppose him gone through all vexations,<br>Patents, instalments, abjurations,<br>First-fruits, and tenths, and chapter-treats;<br>Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats.<br>(The wicked laity's contriving<br>To hinder clergymen from thriving.)<br>Now all the doctor's money's spent,<br>His tenants wrong him in his rent,<br>The farmers spitefully combine,<br>Force him to take his tithes in kine,<br>And Parvisol discounts arrears<br>By bills, for taxes and repairs.<br>Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd,<br>Not knowing where to turn him next,<br>Above a thousand pounds in debt,<br>Takes horse, and in a mighty fret<br>Rides day and night at such a rate,<br>He soon arrives at Harley's gate;<br>But was so dirty, pale, and thin,<br>Old Read would hardly let him in.<br>Said Harley, 'Welcome, rev'rend dean!<br>What makes your worship look so lean?<br>Why, sure you won't appear in town<br>In that old wig and rusty gown?<br>I doubt your heart is set on pelf<br>So much that you neglect yourself.<br>What! I suppose, now stocks are high,<br>You've some good purchase in your eye?<br>Or is your money out at use?'—<br>'Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce!'<br>The doctor in a passion cry'd,<br>'Your raillery is misapply'd;<br>Experience I have dearly bought;<br>You know I am not worth a groat:<br>But you resolved to have your jest,<br>And 'twas a folly to contest;<br>Then, since you now have done your worst,<br>Pray leave me where you found me first.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jonathan+Swift">Jonathan Swift</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426360" data-title="Horace, Epist. I, VII Imitation Of Horace To Lord Oxford de Jonathan Swift" data-description="Harley, the nation's great support,
Returning home one day from court,
His mind with public cares possest,
All Europe's business in his breast,
Observed a parson near Whitehall,
Cheap'ning old authors on a stall.
The priest was pretty well in case..."></div>
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