Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/147

Rh But, if thou soar'st above the common prices, By virtue of subscription to thy Crisis, And nothing can go down with thee, but wines Press'd from Burgundian and Campanian vines, Bid them be brought; for, though I hate the French, I love their liquors, as thou lov'st a wench; Else thou must humble thy expensive taste, And, with us, hold contentment for a feast. The fire's already lighted; and the maid Has a clean cloth upon the table laid, Who never on a Saturday had struck, But for thy entertainment, up a buck. Think of this act of grace, which by your leave Susan would not have done on Easter Eve, Had she not been inform'd over and over 'Twas for th' ingenious author of The Lover. Cease therefore to beguile thyself with hopes, Which is no more than making sandy ropes, And quit the vain pursuit of loud applause, That must bewilder thee in faction's cause. Pry'thee what is't to thee who guides the state? Why Dunkirk's demolition is so late? Or why her majesty thinks fit to cease The din of war, and hush the world to peace? The clergy too, without thy aid, can tell What texts to choose, and on what topicks dwell; And, uninstructed by thy babbling, teach Their flocks celestial happiness to reach. Rather let such poor souls as you and I, Say that the holydays are drawing nigh, And that tomorrow's sun begins the week, Which will abound with store of ale and cake, With hams of bacon, and with powder'd beef, Stuff'd to give field-itinerants relief. Rh