Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 18.djvu/426

412 Thus are the lives of fools a sort of dreams, Rend'ring shades, things, and substances of names; Such high companions may delusion keep, Lords are a footboy's cronies in his sleep. As a fresh miss, by fancy, face, and gown, Render'd the topping beauty of the town, Draws ev'ry 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 ev'ry 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 ; Should such a wretch usurp my Congreve's place, And choose out wits who ne'er have seen his face; I'll be 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 critick ears, Must needs be right, so well resembling theirs. Perish