Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/134

124 Vain humankind! fantastick race! Thy various follies who can trace? Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, Their empire in our hearts divide. Give others riches, power, and station, 'Tis all on me a usurpation. I have no title to aspire; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. In Pope I cannot read a line, But with a sigh I wish it mine: When he can in one couplet fix More sense than I can do in six; It gives me such a jealous fit, I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" I grieve to be outdone by Gay In my own humorous biting way. Arbuthnot is no more my friend, Who dares to irony pretend, Which I was born to introduce, Refin'd it first, and show'd its use. St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows That I had some repute for prose; And, till they drove me out of date, Could maul a minister of state. If they have mortified my pride, And made me throw my pen aside; If with such talents Heaven has bless'd 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em? To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts: but never to my friend: I tamely can endure the first: But this with envy makes me burst. Thus much may serve by way of proem; Proceed we therefore to our poem. The