Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/439



AIL to the sage, who, from his native store, Produc'd a science never known before, Our mirth at once to raise and to refine, Till now not half the worth of sounds we knew, Their virtual value was reserv'd for you. To trace their various mazes, and set forth Their hidden force, and multiply their worth; For if t' express one sense our words we choose, A double meaning is of double use. Hail, sacred Art! by what mysterious name Shall I adore thee, various, and the same? The Muses' Proteus, skill'd with grateful change, Through all the pleasing forms of wit to range In quick succession, yet retain through all Some faint resemblance of th' original. Hail, fairest offspring of prodigious birth, At once the parent and the child of Mirth! With Chloe's charms thy airy form can vie, And with thy smiles as many thousands die; The pleasing pain through all their vitals thrills, With subtle force, and tickles as it kills. Thee too, like her, the dying swains pursue, As gay, as careless, as inconstant too; Thou lovely, fleeting, image of a sound. THE