The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 1 by Jonathan Swift
page 57 of 517 (11%)
page 57 of 517 (11%)
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As a fresh miss, by fancy, face, and gown,
Render'd the topping beauty of the town, Draws every rhyming, prating, dressing sot, To boast of favours that he never got; Of which, whoe'er lacks confidence to prate, Brings his good parts and breeding in debate; And not the meanest coxcomb you can find, But thanks his stars, that Phillis has been kind; Thus prostitute my Congreve's name is grown To every lewd pretender of the town. Troth, I could pity you; but this is it, You find, to be the fashionable wit; These are the slaves whom reputation chains, Whose maintenance requires no help from brains. For, should the vilest scribbler to the pit, Whom sin and want e'er furnish'd out a wit; Whose name must not within my lines be shown, Lest here it live, when perish'd with his own;[4] Should such a wretch usurp my Congreve's place, And choose out wits who ne'er have seen his face; I'll bet my life but the dull cheat would pass, Nor need the lion's skin conceal the ass; Yes, that beau's look, that vice, those critic ears, Must needs be right, so well resembling theirs. Perish the Muse's hour thus vainly spent In satire, to my Congreve's praises meant; In how ill season her resentments rule, What's that to her if mankind be a fool? Happy beyond a private Muse's fate, In pleasing all that's good among the great,[5] |
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