Whereas, notwithstanding I am in great pain,
To hear we are making a peace without Spain;
But, most noble senators, 'tis a great shame,
There should be a peace, while I'm _Not-in-game._
The duke show'd me all his fine house; and the duchess
From her closet brought out a full purse in her clutches:
I talk'd of a peace, and they both gave a start,
His grace swore by G--d, and her grace let a f--t:
My long old-fashion'd pocket was presently cramm'd;
And sooner than vote for a peace I'll be damn'd.
But some will cry turn-coat, and rip up old stories,
How I always pretended to be for the Tories:
I answer; the Tories were in my good graces,
Till all my relations were put into places.
But still I'm in principle ever the same,
And will quit my best friends, while I'm _Not-in-game._
When I and some others subscribed our names
To a plot for expelling my master King James,
I withdrew my subscription by help of a blot,
And so might discover or gain by the plot:
I had my advantage, and stood at defiance,
For Daniel[2] was got from the den of the lions:
I came in without danger, and was I to blame?
For, rather than hang, I would be _Not-in-game._
I swore to the queen, that the Prince of Hanover
During her sacred life would never come over:
I made use of a trope; that "an heir to invite,
Was like keeping her monument always in sight."
But, when I thought proper, I alter'd my note;
And in her own hearing I boldly did vote,
That her Majesty stood in great need of a tutor,
And must have an old or a young coadjutor:
For why; I would fain have put all in a flame,
Because, for some reasons, I was _Not-in-game._
Now my new benefactors have brought me about,
And I'll vote against peace, with Spain or without:
Though the court gives my nephews, and brothers, and cousins,
And all my whole family, places by dozens;
Yet, since I know where a full purse may be found,
And hardly pay eighteen-pence tax in the pound:
Since the Tories have thus disappointed my hopes,
And will neither regard my figures nor tropes,
I'll speech against peace while _Dismal's_ my name,
And be a true Whig, while I'm _Not-in-game._
[Footnote 1: Lord Nottingham's family name.]
[Footnote 2: This was the Earl's Christian name.]
THE WINDSOR PROPHECY[1]
"About three months ago, at Windsor, a poor knight's widow was buried in
the cloisters. In digging the grave, the sexton struck against a small
leaden coffer, about half a foot in length, and four inches wide. The
poor man, expecting he had discovered a treasure, opened it with some
difficulty; but found only a small parchment, rolled up very fast, put
into a leather case; which case was tied at the top, and sealed with St.
George, the impression on black wax, very rude and gothic. The parchment
was carried to a gentleman of learning, who found in it the following
lines, written in a black old English letter, and in the orthography of
the age, which seems to be about two hundred years ago. I made a shift to
obtain a copy of it; but the transcriber, I find, hath in many parts
altered the spelling to the modern way. The original, as I am informed,
is now in the hands of the ingenious Dr. Woodward, F. R. S. where, I
suppose, the curious will not be refused the satisfaction of seeing it.
"The lines seem to be a sort of prophecy, and written in verse, as old
prophecies usually are, but in a very hobbling kind of measure. Their
meaning is very dark, if it be any at all; of which the learned reader
can judge better than I: however it be, several persons were of opinion
that they deserved to be published, both as they discover somewhat of the
genius of a former age, and may be an amusement to the
present."--_Swift_.
The subject of this virulent satire was Elizabeth, Baroness Percy,
daughter and heiress of Josceline, Earl of Northumberland, who died in
1670. She was born in 1666. In 1679 she was married to Henry Cavendish,
Earl of Ogle, who died in 1680. In 1681, she married Thomas Thynne, a man
of great wealth, a friend of the Duke of Monmouth and the Issachar of
Dryden's "Absalom and Achitophel." A few months afterwards, in February
1681-2, Thynne was assassinated in the Haymarket by foreigners, who were
devoted friends of Count Konigsmark, and appear to have acted under his
direction. The Count had been in London shortly before Lady Ogle's
marriage to Thynne, and had then paid his addresses to her. He fled the
day after the murder, but was brought back, and was tried with the
principals as an accessory, but was acquitted. Four months after the
murder of Thynne, his widow was married to Charles Seymour, Duke of
Somerset, on 30th May, 1682, and ultimately became the favourite and
friend of Queen Anne, and a zealous partisan of the Whig party. Hence
Swift's "Prophecy." See "State Trials," vol. ix, and "Notes and
Queries," 1st S., v. 269.--_W. E. B._
When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob,[2]
With a saint[3] at his chin and a seal at his fob,
Shall not see one[4] New-Years-day in that year,
Then let old England make good cheer:
Windsor[5] and Bristol[5] then shall be
Joined together in the Low-countree.[5]
Then shall the tall black Daventry Bird[6]
Speak against peace right many a word;
And some shall admire his coneying wit,
For many good groats his tongue shall slit.
But spight of the Harpy[7] that crawls on all four,
There shall be peace, pardie, and war no more
But England must cry alack and well-a-day,
If the stick be taken from the dead sea.[8]
And, dear Englond, if ought I understond,
Beware of Carrots[9] from Northumberlond.
Carrots sown Thynne a deep root may get,
If so be they are in Somer set:
Their Conyngs[10] mark thou; for I have been told,
They assassine when younge, and poison when old.
Root out these Carrots, O thou,[11] whose name
is backwards and forwards always the same;
And keep thee close to thee always that name
Which backwards and forwards is [12] almost the same.
And, England, wouldst thou be happy still,
Burn those Carrots under a Hill.[13]
[Footnote 1: Although Swift was advised by Mrs. Masham "not to let the
Prophecy be published," and he acted on her advice, many copies were
"printed and given about, but not sold." To Stella, Swift writes: "I
doubt not but you will have the Prophecy in Ireland although it is not
published here, only printed copies given to friends." See Journal to
Stella, 26, 27 Dec. 1711, and Jan. 4, 1711-12.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: Dr. John Robinson, Bishop of Bristol, one of the
plenipotentiaries at Utrecht.--_Scott_.]
[Footnote 3: He was Dean of Windsor, and lord privy seal.]
[Footnote 4: The New Style, which was not adopted in Great Britain and
Ireland till it was brought in by Lord Chesterfield in 1752, was then
Observed in most parts of Europe. The bishop set out from England the
Latter end of December, O. S.; and on his arrival at Utrecht, by the
Variation of the style, he found January somewhat advanced.]
[Footnote 5: Alluding to the deanery and bishopric being possessed by the
same person, then at Utrecht.]
[Footnote 6: Earl of Nottingham.]
[Footnote 7: Duke of Marlborough.]
[Footnote 8: The treasurer's wand, taken from Harley, whose second title
was Lord _Mortimer_.]
[Footnote 9: The Duchess of Somerset.[1]]
[Footnote 10: Count Konigsmark.[2]]
[Footnote 11: ANNA.]
[Footnote 12: MASHAM.]
[Footnote 13: Lady Masham's maiden name.]
[embedded footnote 1: She had red hair, _post_, 165. ]
[embedded footnote 2: Or Coningsmark.]
CORINNA,[1] A BALLAD
1711-12
This day (the year I dare not tell)
Apollo play'd the midwife's part;
Into the world Corinna fell,
And he endued her with his art.
But Cupid with a Satyr comes;
Both softly to the cradle creep;
Both stroke her hands, and rub her gums,
While the poor child lay fast asleep.
Then Cupid thus: "This little maid
Of love shall always speak and write;"
"And I pronounce," the Satyr said,
"The world shall feel her scratch and bite."
Her talent she display'd betimes;
For in a few revolving moons,
She seem'd to laugh and squall in rhymes,
And all her gestures were lampoons.
At six years old, the subtle jade
Stole to the pantry-door, and found
The butler with my lady's maid:
And you may swear the tale went round.
She made a song, how little miss
Was kiss'd and slobber'd by a lad:
And how, when master went to p--,
Miss came, and peep'd at all he had.
At twelve, a wit and a coquette;
Marries for love, half whore, half wife;
Cuckolds, elopes, and runs in debt;
Turns authoress, and is Curll's for life.
Her common-place book all gallant is,
Of scandal now a cornucopia;
She pours it out in Atalantis
Or memoirs of the New Utopia.
[Footnote 1: This ballad refers to some details in the life of Mrs. de la
Rivière Manley, a political writer, who was born about 1672, and died in
July, 1724. The work by which she became famous was "Secret memoirs and
manners of several persons of quality of both sexes, from the New
Atalantis." She was Swift's amanuensis and assistant in "The Examiner,"
and succeeded him as Editor. In his Journal to Stella, Jan. 26, 1711-12,
he writes: "Poor Mrs. Manley, the author, is very ill of a dropsy and
sore leg; the printer tells me he is afraid she cannot live long. I am
heartily sorry for her. She has very generous principles for one of her
sort; and a great deal of good sense and invention: She is about forty,
very homely and very fat." Swift's subsequent severe attack upon her in
these verses can only be accounted for, but cannot be excused by, some
change in his political views. See "The Tatler," Nos. 35, 63, _edit.
1786.--W. E. B._]