Page:The lives of the poets of Great Britain and Ireland to the time of Dean Swift - Volume 4.djvu/61

That ſtroke, for all King William’s care,
Begat another tedious war.
Matthew, who knew the whole intrigue,
Ne’er much approv’d that myſtic league;
In the vile Utrecht treaty too,
Poor man! he found enough to do.
Sometimes to me he did apply;
But downright Dunſtable was I,
And told him where they were miſtaken,
And counſell’d him to ſave his bacon:
But (paſs his politics and proſe)
I never herded with his foes;
Nay, in his verſes, as a friend,
I ſtill found ſomething to commend.
Sir, I excus’d his Nut-brown maid;
Whate’er ſeverer critics ſaid:
Too far, I own, the girl was try’d:
The women all were on my ſide.
For Alma I returned him thanks,
I lik’d her with her little pranks;
Indeed, poor Solomon, in rhime,
Was much too grave to be ſublime.
Pindar and Damon ſcorn tranſition,
So on he ran a new diviſion;
’Till, out of breath, he turn’d to ſpit:
(Chance often helps us more than wit)
T’ other that lucky moment took,
Juſt nick’d the time, broke in, and ſpoke:

Of all the gifts the gods afford
(If we may take old Tully’s word)
The greateſt is a friend, whoſe love
Knows how to praiſe, and when reprove;
From ſuch a treaſure never part,
But hang the jewel on your heart:
And pray, ſir (it delights me) tell;
You know this author mighty well—
Know him! d’ye queſtion it? ods fiſh!
Sir, does a beggar know his diſh?

I lov’d