Written By Dr. Swift On His Own Deafness, In September, 1734

Dear Sir, I think, 'tis doubly hard,
Your ears and doors should both be barr'd.
Can anything be more unkind?
Must I not see, 'cause you are blind?
Methinks a friend at night should cheer you, -
A friend that loves to see and hear you.
Why am I robb'd of that delight,
When you can be no loser by't
Nay, when 'tis plain (for what is plainer?)
That if you heard you'd be no gainer?
For sure you are not yet to learn,
That hearing is not your concern.
Then be your doors no longer barr'd:
Your business, sir, is to be heard.

What though the Dean hears not the knell
Of the next church's passing bell;
What though the thunder from a cloud,
Or that from female tongue more loud,
Alarm not; At the Drapier's ear,
Chink but Wood's halfpence, and he'll hear.

WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, 1714

Soon after the author's coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen's death.[1] - Swift.

'Tis true - then why should I repine
To see my life so fast decline?
But why obscurely here alone,
Where I am neither loved nor known?
My state of health none care to learn;
My life is here no soul's concern:
And those with whom I now converse
Without a tear will tend my hearse.
Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid,
Who knows his art, but not his trade,
Preferring his regard for me
Before his credit, or his fee.
Some formal visits, looks, and words,
What mere humanity affords,
I meet perhaps from three or four,
From whom I once expected more;
Which those who tend the sick for pay,
Can act as decently as they:
But n...

Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass,
That you, who know music no more than an ass,
That you who so lately were writing of drapiers,
Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers?
To act such an opera once in a year,
So offensive to every true Protestant ear,
With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing,
Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in,
No Protestant Prelate, his lordship or grace,
Durst there show his right, or most reverend face:
How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets,
To listen to minims, and quavers, and crochets!

[The rest is wanting.]

"IN SYLLABAM LONGAM IN VOCE VERTIGINOSUS A. D. SWIFT CORREPTAM"


Musarum antistes, Phoebi numerosus alumnus,
    Vix omnes numeros Vertiginosus habet.
Intentat charo capiti vertigo ruinam:
    Oh! servet cerebro nata Minerva caput.
Vertigo nimium longa est, divina poeta;
    Dent tibi Pierides, donet Apollo, brevem.

POPE has the talent well to speak,
    But not to reach the ear;
His loudest voice is low and weak,
    The Dean too deaf to hear.

Awhile they on each other look,
    Then different studies choose;
The Dean sits plodding on a book;
    Pope walks, and courts the Muse.

Now backs of letters, though design'd
    For those who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with hints, and interlined,
    Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each atom by some other struck,
    All turns and motions tries;
Till in a lump together stuck,
    Behold a poem rise:

Yet to the Dean his share allot;
    He claims it by a canon;
That without which a thing is not,
    Is causa sine quâ non.

Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit;
    For...