Jonathan Swift (जोनाथन स्विफ्ट)

Stella this day is thirty-four,(We shan't dispute a year or more:).

However, Stella, be not troubled,Although thy size and years are doubled.

Since first I saw thee at sixteen,The brightest virgin on the green.

So little is thy form declin'd,Made up so largely in thy mind.

Oh, would it please the gods to split,Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit.

No age could furnish out a pair,Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair.

With half the lustre of your eyes,With half your wit, your years, and size.

And then, before it grew too late,How should I beg of gentle Fate.

(That either nymph might have her swain,),To split my worship too in twain.

As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew,From nature, I believe 'em true.

They argue no corrupted mind,In him; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest,Is thought too base for human breast.

"In all distresses of our friends,We first consult our private ends.

While nature, kindly bent to ease us,Points out some circumstance to please us.".

If this perhaps your patience move,Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes,Our equal raised above our size.

Who would not at a crowded show,Stand high himself, keep others low?.

I love my friend as well as you,But why should he obstruct my view?.

Then let me have the higher post,Suppose it but an inch at most.

If in battle you should find,One whom you love of all mankind.

Had some heroic action done,A champion killed, or trophy won.

Rather than thus be overtopped,Would you not wish his laurels cropped?.

Dear honest Ned is in the gout,Lies racked with pain, and you without.

How patiently you hear him groan!,How glad the case is not your own!.

What poet would not grieve to see,His breth'ren write as well as he?.

But rather than they should excel,He wished his rivals all in hell.

Her end when Emulation misses,She turns to Envy, stings, and hisses.

The strongest friendship yields to pride,Unless the odds be on our side.

Vain human kind! fantastic 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 an 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 hum'rous biting way.

Arbuthnot is no more my friend,Who dares to irony pretend.

Which I was born to introduce,Refined it first, and shewed its use.

St. John, as well as Pultney, 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 Heav'n has blest '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 time is not remote when I,Must by the course of nature die.

When, I foresee, my special friends,Will try to find their private ends.

Tho' it is hardly understood,Which way my death can do them good.

Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak,"See, how the Dean begins to break!.

Poor gentleman, he droops apace!,You plainly find it in his face.

That old vertigo in his head,Will never leave him till he's dead.

Besides, his memory decays,He recollects not what he says.

He cannot call his friends to mind,Forgets the place where last he dined.

Plyes you with stories o'er and o'er,He told them fifty times before.

How does he fancy we can sit,To hear his out-of-fashioned wit?.

But he takes up with younger folks,Who for his wine will bear his jokes.

Faith! he must make his stories shorter,Or change his comrades once a quarter.

In half the time he talks them round,There must another set be found.

"For poetry he's past his prime,He takes an hour to find a rhyme.

His fire is out, his wit decayed,His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.

I'd have him throw away his pen; -,But there's no talking to some men!".

And then their tenderness appears,By adding largely to my years.

"He's older than he would be reckoned,And well remembers Charles the Second.

He hardly drinks a pint of wine,And that, I doubt, is no good sign.

His stomach too begins to fail,Last year we thought him strong and hale.

But now he's quite another thing,I wish he may hold out till spring.".

Then hug themselves, and reason thus,"It is not yet so bad with us!".

In such a case they talk in tropes,And by their fears express their hopes.

Some great misfortune to portend,No enemy can match a friend.

With all the kindness they profess,The merit of a lucky guess.

(When daily how-d'ye's come of course,And servants answer, Worse and worse!).

Would please 'em better than to tell,That "God be praised, the Dean is well.".

Then he who prophecied the best,Approves his foresight to the rest.

"You know I always feared the worst,And often told you so at first." -.

He'd rather choose that I should die,Than his prediction prove a lie.

Not one foretells I shall recover,But all agree to give me over.

Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain,Just in the parts where I complain.

How many a message would he send?,What hearty prayers that I should mend?.

Inquire what regimen I kept,What gave me ease, and how I slept?.

And more lament when I was dead,Than all the sniv'llers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear,For though you may mistake a year.

Though your prognostics run too fast,They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive!,"How is the Dean?" -"He's just alive.".

Now the departing prayer is read,"He hardly breathes." -"The Dean is dead.".

Before the Passing-bell begun,The news thro' half the town has run.

"O, may we all for death prepare!,What has he left? and who's his heir?" -.

"I know no more that what the news is,'Tis all bequeathed to public uses." -.

"To public use! A perfect whim!,What had the public done for him?.

Mere envy, avarice, and pride,He gave it all -but first he died.

And had the Dean, in all the nation,No worthy friend, no poor relation?.

So ready to do strangers good,Forgetting his own flesh and blood!".

Now Grub Street wits are all employed,With elegies the town is cloyed.

Some paragraph in ev'ry paper,To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.

The doctors, tender of their fame,Wisely on me lay all the blame.

"We must confess his case was nice,But he would never take advice.

Had he been ruled, for aught appears,He might have lived these twenty years.

For when we opened him we found,That all his vital parts were sound.".

From Dublin soon to London spread,'Tis told at court "the Dean is dead.".

Kind Lady Suffolk, in the spleen,Runs laughing up to tell the queen.

The queen, so gracious, mild, and good,Cries "Is he gone? 'tis time he should.

He's dead, you say; why, let him rot,I'm glad the medals were forgot.