VERSES fent to Dean SWIFT on his Birth-day, with PINE'S Horace finely bound.
Written by Dr. J. SICA N.
OU'VE read, Sir, in poetic ftrain,
How Varus and the Mantuan fwain,
Have on my birth day been invited
(But I was forc'd in verse to write it,)
Upon a plain repast to dine,
And taste my old Campanian wine;
But I, who all punctilio's hate,
Tho' long familiar with the great,
Nor glory in my reputation,
Am come without an invitation,
And tho' I'm us'd to right Falernian,
I'll deign for once to taste Iernian;
But fearing that you might difpute
(Had I put on a common fuit,)
My breeding and my politeffe,
I vifit in a birth-day drefs;
My coat of pureft Turkey-red,
With gold embroid'ry richly spread;
To which, I've fure as good pretenfions,
As Irish lords who starve on penfions.
What tho' proud ministers of state
Did at your antichamber wait;
What tho' your Oxfords, and your St. Johns,
Have at your Levee paid attendance;
And Peterborough and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid afide the general's ftaff
And public cares, with you to laugh;
Yet I fome friends as good can name,
Nor less the darling fons of fame;
For fure my Pollio and Mecænas
Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as
Either your Bolingbroke or Harley,
Tho' they made Lewis beg a parley:
And as for Mordaunt your loy'd hero,
I'll match him with my Drufus Nero.
You'll boast perhaps your fav'rite Pope,
But Virgil is as good I hope.
I own indeed I can't get any
To equal Helfham and Delany;
Since, Athens brought forth Socrates,
A Grecian Ifle Hippocrates;
Since, Tully liv'd before my time,
And Galen blefs'd another clime.
You'll plead perhaps to my request To be admitted as a guest,
Your hearing's bad—but why fuch fears?
I fpeak to eyes, and not to ears;
And for that reason, wifely took
The form you fee me in, a book.
Attack'd, by flow devouring moths,
By rage of barb'rous Huns and Goths:
By Bentley's notes, my deadlieft foes,
By Creech's rhimes and Dunfter's profe;
I found
my boafted wit and fire
In their rude hands almost expire:
Yet ftill they but in vain affail'd,
For had their violence prevail'd,
And in a blast destroy'd my fame,
They wou'd have partly miss'd their aim;
Since all my spirit in thy page
Defies the Vandals of this age.
'Tis yours to fave these small remains From future pedants muddy brains, And fix my long-uncertain fate,
You best know how,Which way?
VERSES written in á GARDEN.
EE how that pair of billing doves
With open murmurs own their loves;
And heedlefs of cenforious eyes,
Purfue their unpolluted joys:
No fears of future want moleft
The downy quiet of their neft;
No int'reft join'd the happy pair,
Securely bleft in Nature's care,
While her dear dictates they pursue:
For conftancy is nature too.
Can all the doctrine of our schools;
Our maxims, our religious rules,
Can learning to our lives enfure
Virtue fo bright, or blifs fo pure?
The great Creator's happy ends,
Virtue and pleasure ever blends :
In vain the church and court have try'd
Th' united effence to divide;
Alike they find their wild mistake,
The pedant prieft, and giddy rake,
'S it to me, this fad lamenting strain?
Are heaven's choiceft gifts bestow'd in vain ?
A plenteous fortune, and a beauteous bride,
Your love rewarded, gratify'd your pride:
Yet leaving her'tis me that you pursue
Without one fingle charm, but being new.
How vile is man! how I deteft their ways
Of artful falfhood, and defigning praise!
Taftelefs, an eafy happiness you flight,
Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight.
Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind)
Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin'd?
Some cup, perhaps, he breaks, or tears a fan,
While roves unpunish'd the destroyer, man.
Not bound by vows, and unreftrain'd by shame,
In fport you break the heart, and rend the fame.
Not that your art can be fuccefsful here,
Th' already plunder'd need no robber fear :
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