VERSES
sent
to
Dean
SWIFT
on
his
Birth-day
,
with
PINE'S
HORACE
finely
bound
.
Written
by
Dr.
J.
SICAN
.
[
HORACE
speaking
.
]
YOU'VE
read
,
Sir
,
in
poetic
strain
,
How
Varus
and
the
Mantuan
swain
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
dispute
(
Had
I
put
on
a
common
suit
,
)
My
breeding
and
my
politesse
,
I
visit
in
a
birth-day
dress
;
My
coat
of
purest
Turkey-red
,
With
gold
embroid'ry
richly
spread
;
To
which
,
I've
sure
as
good
pretensions
,
As
Irish
lords
who
starve
on
pensions
.
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
aside
the
general's
staff
And
public
cares
,
with
you
to
laugh
;
Yet
I
some
friends
as
good
can
name
,
Nor
less
the
darling
sons
of
fame
;
For
sure
my
Pollio
and
Mecaenas
Were
as
good
statesman
,
Mr.
Dean
,
as
Either
your
Bolingbroke
or
Harley
,
Tho'
they
made
Lewis
beg
a
parley
:
And
as
for
Mordaunt
your
lov'd
hero
,
I'll
match
him
with
my
Drusus
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
Helsham
and
Delany
;
Since
,
Athens
brought
forth
Socrates
,
A
Grecian
Isle
Hippocrates
;
Since
,
Tully
liv'd
before
my
time
,
And
Galen
bless'd
another
clime
.
You'll
plead
perhaps
to
my
request
,
To
be
admitted
as
a
guest
,
Your
hearing's
bad
—
but
why
such
fears
?
I
speak
to
eyes
,
and
not
to
ears
;
And
for
that
reason
,
wisely
took
The
form
you
see
me
in
,
a
book
.
Attack'd
,
by
slow-devouring
moths
,
By
rage
of
barb'rous
Huns
and
Goths
:
By
Bentley's
notes
,
my
deadliest
foes
,
By
Creech's
rhimes
and
Dunster's
prose
;
I
found
my
boasted
wit
and
fire
In
their
rude
hands
almost
expire
:
Yet
still
they
but
in
vain
assail'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
save
these
small
remains
From
future
pedants
muddy
brains
,
And
fix
my
long-uncertain
fate
,
You
best
know
how
,
—
which
way
?
—
translate
.