Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/140



HE nymph who wrote this in an amorous fit, I cannot but envy the pride of her wit, Which thus she will venture profusely to throw On so mean a design, and a subject so low. For mean's her design, and her subject as mean, The first but a rebus, the last but a dean. A dean's but a parson: and what is a rebus? A thing never known to the Muses or Phœbus. The corruption of verse; for, when all is done, It is but a paraphrase made on a pun. But a genius like her's no subject can stifle, It shows and discovers itself through a trifle. By reading this trifle, I quickly began To find her a great wit, but the dean a small man. Rich ladies will furnish their garrets with stuff, Which others for mantuas would think fine enough: So the wit that is lavishly thrown away here, Might furnish a second-rate poet a year. Thus much for the verse, we proceed to the next, Where the nymph has entirely forsaken her text: Her fine panegyricks are quite out of season, And what she describes to be merit, is treason: The changes which faction has made in the state, Have put the dean's politicks quite out of date: Now no one regards what he utters with freedom, And, should he write pamphlets, no great man would read 'em; And should want or desert stand in need of his aid, This racer would prove but a dull founder'd jade. HORACE,