Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/144

 What though her highness and her spouse, In Antwerp keep a frugal house, Yet, not forgetful of a friend, They'll soon enable thee to spend, If to Macartney thou wilt toast, And to his pious patron's ghost. Now manfully thou'lt run a tilt "On popes, for all the blood they've spilt, For massacres, and racks, and flames, For lands enrich'd by crimson streams, For inquisitions taught by Spain, Of which the Christian world complain." Dick, we agree — all's true thou'st said, As that my Muse is yet a maid. But, if I may with freedom talk, All this is foreign to thy walk: Thy genius has perhaps a knack At trudging in a beaten track, But is for state affairs as fit As mine for politicks and wit. Then let us both in time grow wise, Nor higher than our talents rise; To some snug cellar let's repair From duns and debts, and drown our care; Now quaff of honest ale a quart, Now venture at a pint of port; With which inspir'd, we'll club each night Some tender sonnet to indite, And with Tom D'Urfey, Philips, Dennis, Immortalize our Dolls and Jennys. HORACE,