Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift,
D.S.P.D., Occasioned by Reading a Maxim in Rochefoucauld (1739)
Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons
quelque chose, qui ne nous deplaît pas. [Rochefoucauld, Maximes supprimées, No. 18.]
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 raisd 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 would not have him stop my view.
Then let him have the higher post:
I ask but for an inch at most.
If in a battle you should find
One, whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,
A champion killd, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rackd 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 brethren write as well as he?
But rather than they should excel,
Hed wish 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 a 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!
Why must I be outdone by Gay
In my own humrous biting way?
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refind it first, and showd 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And, till they drove me out of date,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 mortifyd my pride,
And made me throw my pen aside;
If with such talents Heavn 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 hes dead.
Besides, his memory decays:
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind:
Forgets the place where last he dind;
Plies you with stories oer and oer;
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashiond 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 hes past his prime:
He takes an hour to find a rhyme;
His fire is out, his wit decayd,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
Id have him throw away his pen; -
But theres no talking to some men!
And then their tenderness appears,
By adding largely to my years:
Hes older than he would be reckond
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 hes 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 dyes come of course,
And servants answer, Worse and worse!)
Would please em better, than to tell,
That, God be praisd, the Dean is well.
Then he who prophecyd the best
Approves his foresight to the rest:
You know I always feard the worst,
And often told you so at first.
Hed 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 snivllers round my bed.
My good companions, never fear;
For though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast,
They must be verifyd at last.
Behold the fatal day arrive!
How is the Dean? - Hes 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 whos his heir? -
I know no more than what the news is;
Tis all bequeathd 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 employd;
With elegies the town is cloyd:
Some paragraph in evry 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 ruld, for aught appears,
He might have livd these twenty years;
For, when we opend 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.
Hes dead, you say; why, let him rot:
Im glad the medals were forgot.
I promisd them, I own; but when?
I only was the Princess then;
But now, as consort of a king,
You know, Tis quite a different thing.
Now Chartres, at Sir Roberts levee,
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:
Why, is he dead without his shoes?
Cries Bob, Im sorry for the news:
O, were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will!
Or had a mitre on his head,
Provided Bolingbroke were dead!
Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains:
Three genuine tomes of Swifts remains!
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revisd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
Hell treat me as he does my betters,
Publish my will, my life, my letters:
Revive the libels born to die;
Which Pope must bear, as well as I.
Here shift the scene, to represent
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.
St. John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen, and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
Im sorry - but we all must die!
Indifference, clad in Wisdoms guise,
All fortitude of mind supplies:
For how can stony bowels melt
In those who never pity felt?
When we are lashd, they kiss the rod,
Resigning to the will of God.
The fools, my juniors by a year,
Are torturd with suspense and fear;
Who wisely thought my age a screen,
When death approachd, to stand between:
The screen removd, their hearts are trembling;
They mourn for me without dissembling.
My female friends, whose tender hearts
Have better learnd to act their parts,
Receive the news in doleful dumps:
The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?)
Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, Ill venture for the vole.)
Six deans, they say, must bear the pall:
(I wish I knew what king to call.)
Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend.
No, madam, Tis a shocking sight:
And hes engagd to-morrow night:
My Lady Club would take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille.
He lovd the Dean - (I lead a heart)
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come: he ran his race;
We hope hes in a better place.
Why do we grieve that friends should die?
No loss more easy to supply.
One year is past; a different scene!
No further mention of the Dean;
Who now, alas! no more is missd,
Than if he never did exist.
Wheres now this favrite of Apollo!
Departed: - and his works must follow;
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.
Some country squire to Lintot goes,
Inquires for Swift in Verse and Prose.
Says Lintot, I have heard the name;
He died a year ago. - The same.
He searcheth all his shop in vain.
Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;
I sent them with a load of books,
Last Monday to the pastry-cooks.
To fancy they could live a year!
I find youre but a stranger here.
The Dean was famous in his time,
And had a kind of knack at rhyme.
His way of writing now is past;
The town hath got a better taste;
I keep no antiquated stuff,
But spick and span I have enough.
Pray do but give me leave to show em;
Heres Colley Cibbers birth-day poem.
This ode you never yet have seen,
By Stephen Duck, upon the Queen.
Then heres a letter finely pennd
Against the Craftsman and his friend:
It clearly shows that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.
Next, heres Sir Roberts vindication,
And Mr. Henleys last oration.
The hawkers have not got em yet:
Your honour please to buy a set?
Heres Woolstons tracts,
the twelfth edition;
Tis read by every politician:
The country members, when in town,
To all their boroughs send them down;
You never met a thing so smart;
The courtiers have them all by heart:
Those maids of honour who can read
Are taught to use them for their creed.
The revrend authors good intention
Hath been rewarded with a pension.
He doth an honour to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down:
He shows, as sure as Gods in Gloucester,
That Jesus was a grand imposter;
That all his miracles were cheats,
Performd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he hath not got a mitre!
Suppose me dead; and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose;
Where, from discourse of this and that,
I grow the subject of their chat.
And while they toss my name about,
With favour some, and some without,
One, quite indiffrent in the cause,
My character impartial draws:
The Dean, if we believe report,
Was never ill receivd at Court.
As for his works in verse and prose
I own myself no judge of those;
Nor can I tell what critics thought em:
But this I know, all people bought em.
As with a moral view designd
To cure the vices of mankind:
His vein, ironically grave,
Exposd the fool, and lashd the knave.
To steal a hint was never known,
But what he writ was all his own.
He never thought an honour done him,
Because a duke was proud to own him,
Would rather slip aside and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes;
Despisd the fools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
He never courted men in station,
Nor persons held in admiration;
Of no mans greatness was afraid,
Because he sought for no mans aid.
Though trusted long in great affairs
He gave himself no haughty airs:
Without regarding private ends,
Spent all his credit for his friends;
And only chose the wise and good;
No flattrers; no allies in blood:
But succourd virtue in distress,
And seldom faild of good success;
As numbers in their hearts must own,
Who, but for him, had been unknown.
With princes kept a due decorum,
But never stood in awe before em.
He followd Davids lesson just:
In princes never put thy trust;
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in powr.
The Irish senate if you namd,
With what impatience he declaimd!
Fair Liberty was all his cry,
For her he stood prepard to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft exposd his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head;
But not a traitor could be found
To sell him for six hundred pound.
Had he but spard his tongue and pen
He might have rose like other men:
But powr was never in his thought,
And wealth he valud not a groat:
Ingratitude he often found,
And pityd those who meant the wound:
But kept the tenor of his mind,
To merit well of human kind:
Nor made a sacrifice of those
Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labourd many a fruitless hour
To reconcile his friends in powr;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursud each others ruin.
But, finding vain was all his care,
He left the Court in mere despair.
And, oh! how short are human schemes!
Here ended all our golden dreams.
What St. Johns skill in state affairs,
What Ormonds valour, Oxfords cares,
To save their sinking country lent,
Was all destroyd by one event.
Too soon that precious life was ended,
On which alone our weal depended.
When up a dangerous faction starts,
With wrath and vengeance in their hearts;
By solemn League and Covnant bound,
To ruin, slaughter, and confound;
To turn religion to a fable,
And make the government a Babel;
Pervert the law, disgrace the gown,
Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;
To sacrifice old Englands glory,
And make her infamous in story:
When such a tempest shook the land,
How could unguarded Virtue stand?
With horror, grief, despair, the Dean
Beheld the dire destructive scene:
His friends in exile, or the tower,
Himself within the frown of power,
Pursud by base envenomd pens,
Far to the land of slaves and fens;
A servile race in folly nursd,
Who truckle most when treated worst.
By innocence and resolution,
He bore continual persecution,
While numbers to preferment rose,
Whose merits were, to be his foes;
When evn his own familiar friends,
Intent upon their private ends,
Like renegadoes now he feels,
Against him lifting up their heels.
The Dean did by his pen defeat
An infamous destructive cheat;
Taught fools their intrest how to know,
And gave them arms to ward the blow.
Envy hath ownd it was his doing,
To save that helpless land from ruin;
While they who at the steerage stood,
And reapd the profit, sought his blood.
To save them from their evil fate,
In him was held a crime of state.
A wicked monster on the bench,
Whose fury blood could never quench,
As vile and profligate a villain,
As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian,
Who long all justice had discarded,
Nor feard he God, nor man regarded,
Vowd on the Dean his rage to vent,
And make him of his zeal repent;
But Heavn his innocence defends,
The grateful people stand his friends.
Not strains of law, nor judges frown,
Nor topics brought to please the crown,
Nor witness hird, nor jury pickd,
Prevail to bring him in convict.
In exile, with a steady heart,
He spent his lifes declining part;
Where folly, pride, and faction sway,
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.
His friendships there, to few confind,
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank, a mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed:
Where titles gave no right or power
And peerage is a witherd flower;
He would have held it a disgrace,
If such a wretch had known his face.
On rural squires, that kingdoms bane,
He vented oft his wrath in vain;
Biennial squires to market brought;
Who sell their souls and votes for nought;
The nation strippd, go joyful back,
To rob the church, their tenants rack,
Go snacks with thieves and rapparees,
And keep the peace to pick up fees;
In evry job to have a share,
A jail or barrack to repair;
And turn the tax for public roads,
Commodious to their own abodes.
Perhaps I may allow, the Dean
Had too much satire in his vein;
And seemd determind not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet malice never was his aim;
He lashd the vice, but spard the name;
No individual could resent,
Where thousands equally were meant.
His satire points at no defect,
But what all mortals may correct;
For he abhorrd that senseless tribe
Who call it humour when they gibe.
He spard a hump, or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux.
True genuine dulness movd his pity,
Unless it offerd to be witty.
Those who their ignorance confessd
He neer offended with a jest;
But laughd to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace, learnd by rote.
He knew a hundred pleasant stories
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories:
Was cheerful to his dying day;
And friends would let him have his way.
He gave the little wealth he had
To build a house for fools and mad;
And showd by one satiric touch,
No nation wanted it so much.
That kingdom he hath left his debtor,
I wish it soon may have a better.
Authors Notes to the poem, On the Death of
The author supposes that the scribblers
of the prevailing party, which he always opposed, will libel him after
his death; but that others who remember the service he had done Ireland,
under the name of M.B. Drapier, by utterly defeating the destructive project
of Woods half-pence in five Letters to the People of Ireland,
at the time read universally and convincing every reader, will remember
him with gratitude. [Some paragraph in evry paper/To curse the
Dean or bless the Drapier; l.168].
The Dean supposeth himself to die in
Ireland. [He hardly breathes. - The Dean is dead;
Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk
[the kings mistress], then of the Bedchamber to the Queen, professed
much favor for the Dean. The Queen, then Princess, sent a dozen times
to the Dean (then in London) with her command to attend her, which at
last he did by advice of all his friends. She often sent for him afterwards
and always treated him very graciously. He taxed her with a present worth
ten pounds, which she promised before he should return to Ireland, but
on his taking leave the medals were not ready. [Kind Lady Suffolk in
the spleen/Runs laughing up to tell the Queen; l.179].
The medals were to be sent to the Dean
in four months, but she forgot, or thought them too dear. The Dean being
in Ireland sent Mrs. Howard a piece of plaid made in that kingdom, which
the Queen seeing it took it from her and wore it herself, and sent to
the Dean for as much as would clothe herself and her children - desiring
he would send the charge of it. He did the former; it cost £35 but he
said he would have nothing except the medals: he went next summer to England
and was treated as usual, and she being then Queen, the Dean was promised
a settlement in England but returned as he went, and instead of receiving
of her intended favors or the medals hath been ever since under her Majestys
displeasure. [Hes dead, you say; why, let him rot:/Im
glad the medals were forgot; l.184].
Chartres is a most infamous, vile scoundrel,
grown from a footboy, or worse, to a prodigious fortune both in England
and Scotland: he had a way of insinuating himself into all Ministers under
every change [of government], either as pimp, flatterer, or informer.
He was tried at seventy for a rape and came off by sacrificing a great
part of his fortune (he is since dead, but this poem still preserves the
scene and time it was writ in). [Now, Chartres, at Sir Roberts
levee,/Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy ...; l. 189].
Sir Robert Walpole, Chief Minister of
State, treated the Dean in 1726 with great distinction, invited him to
dinner at Chelsea, with the Deans friends chosen on purpose, appointed
an hour to talk with him of Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean
found him no great friend, for he defended Woods project of half-pence,
etc. The Dean would see him no more and, upon his next years return
to England, Sir Robert on an accidental meeting only made a civil compliment
and never invited him again. [Cries Bob, Im sorry for the
Mr. William Pulteney, from being Mr.
Walpoles intimate friend, detesting his administration, became his
mortal enemy and joined with my Lord Bolingbroke to expose him in an excellent
paper, called The Craftsman, which is still continued. [And in his
place my good friend Will!; 194].
Henry St. John, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke,
Secretary of State to Queen Anne of blessed memory. He is reckoned the
most universal genius in Europe; Walpole, dreading his abilities, treated
him most injuriously, working with King George who forgot his promise
of restoring the said lord, upon the restless importunity of Sir Robert
Walpole. [... Provided Bolingbroke were dead!; l.196].
Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller
of any age or country; his character in part may be found in Mr. Popes
Dunciad. He published three volumes all charged on the Dean, who never
writ three pages of them; he hath used many of the Deans friends
in almost as vile a manner. [Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains:/Three
genuine tomes of Swifts Remains!; l. 197].
Three stupid verse writers in London,
the last, to the shame of the Court and the highest disgrace to wit and
learning, was made Laureate. Moore, commonly called Jemmy Moore, son of
Arthur Moore, whose father was jailor of Monaghan in Ireland. See the
character of Jemmy Moore, and Tibbalds, Theobald, in the Dunciad. [Revised
by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber l.200].
Curll is notoriously infamous for publishing
the Lives, Letters, and last Wills and Testaments of the nobility and
Ministers of State, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged at Tyburn.
He hath been in custody of the House of Lords for publishing or forging
the letters of many peers, which made the Lords enter a resolution in
their Journal Book, that no life or writings of any lord should be published
without the consent of the next heir at law, or license from their House.
[Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber; l.202].
Bernard Linton, a bookseller in London,
Vide Mr. Popes Dunciad. [Some country squire to Lintot goes;
(Chk sp. Linton). A place where old books
are sold in London. [Sir, you may find them in Duck-Lane; l.258].
Walpole hath a set of party scribblers,
who do nothing else but write in his defence [Sir Roberts Vindication;
Henley is a clergyman who, wanting both
merit and luck to get preferment or even to keep his curacy in the Established
Church, formed a new conventicle, which he calls an Oratory. There, at
set times, he delivereth strange speeches compiled by himself and his
associates, who share the profit with him: every hearer pays a shilling
each day for admittance. He is an absolute dunce, but generally reputed
crazy. [Mr. Henleys last oration; l.278].
Woolston was a clergyman, but for want
of bread hath in several treatises, in the most blasphemous manner, attempted
to turn Our Saviour and his miracles into ridicule. He is much caressed
by many great courtiers, and by all the infidels, and his books read generally
by the Court Ladies. [Woolstons tracts; l.281].
See the notes before on Chartres [fools
with stars and garters / often seen caressing Chartres; l.324]. In the
year 1713 the late Queen was prevailed with by an Address of the House
of Lords in England to publish a Proclamation, promising three hundred
pounds to whatever person would discover the author of a pamphlet called
The Publick Spirit of the Whiggs; and in Ireland, in the year 1724, my
Lord Carteret at his first coming into the Government was prevailed on
to issue a Proclamation for promising the like reward of three hundred
pounds to any person who could discover the author of a pamphlet called,
The Drapiers Fourth Letter, &c. writ against that destructive
project of coining half-pence for Ireland; but in neither kingdom was
the Dean discovered. [Two kingdoms, just as faction led,/Had
set a price upon his head; l.352].
Queen Annes Ministry fell to variance
from the first year after their Ministry began: Harcourt the Chancellor
and Lord Bolingbroke the Secretary were discontented with the Treasurer
Oxford for his too much mildness to the Whig party. This quarrel grew
higher every day till the Queens death. The Dean, who was the only
person that endeavored to reconcile them, found it impossible and thereupon
retired to the country about ten weeks before that fatal event: upon which
he returned to his Deanery in Dublin, where for many years he was worried
by the new people in power and had hundreds of libels writ against him
in England. [He laboured many a fruitless hour / To reconcile his friends
in power; l.366].
In the height of the quarrel between
the Ministers, the Queen died. [Too soon that precious life was ended;
Upon Queen Annes death the Whig
faction was restored to power, which they exercised with the utmost rage
and revenge, impeached and banished the chief leaders of the Church party
and stripped all their adherents of what employments they had, after which
England was never known to make so mean a figure in Europe: the greatest
preferments in the Church in both kingdoms were given to the most ignorant
men. Fanatics were publicly caressed; Ireland utterly ruined and enslaved;
only great Ministers heaping up millions; and so affairs continue to this
3rd. of May 1732, and are likely to remain so. [Too soon that precious
life was ended; l.379].
Upon the Queens death, the Dean
returned to live in Dublin at his Deanery-house: numberless libels were
writ against him in England as a Jacobite; he was insulted in the street;
and at nights he was forced to be attended by his servants armed. [When
up a dangerous faction starts; l.394].
The land of slaves and fens is Ireland.
[Far to the land of slaves and fens; l.396].
One Wood, a hardware-man from England,
had a patent for coining copper half-pence in Ireland to the sum of £108,000,
which in the consequence must leave that kingdom without gold or silver
(See Drapiers Letters). [An infamous destructive cheat; l.408].
One Whitshed was then Chief Justice:
he had some years before prosecuted a printer for a pamphlet writ by the
Dean to persuade the people of Ireland to wear their own manufactures.
Whitshed sent the jury down eleven times and kept them nine hours until
they were forced to bring in a special verdict. He sat as judge afterwards
on the trial of the printer of the Drapiers Fourth Letter; but the
jury, against all he could say or swear, threw out the bill: all the kingdom
took the Drapiers part, except the courtiers, or those who expected
places. The Drapier was celebrated in many poems and pamphlets: his sign
was set up in most streets in Dublin (where many of them still continue)
and in several country towns. [A wicked monster on the bench; l.417].
Scroggs was Chief Justice under King
Charles the Second: his judgment always varied in state trials according
to directions from the Court. Tressilian was a wicked judge, hanged above
three hundred years ago. [As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian;
In Ireland, which he had reason to call
a place of exile; to which country nothing could have driven him but the
Queens death, who had determined to fix him in England in spite
of the Duchess of Somerset, &c. [In exile, with a steady heart;
Henry St. John, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke,
mentioned before. [Remote from St. John,Pope, and Gay; l. 434].
In Ireland the Dean was not acquainted
with one single Lord Spiritual or Temporal. He only conversed with private
gentlemen of the clergy or laity, and but a small number of either. [His
friendship there, to few confined; l.435].
The peers of Ireland lost their jurisdiction
by one single Act and tamely submitted to the infamous mark of slavery
without the least resentment or remonstrance. [Where ... peerage is a
withered flower; l.440].
The Parliament, as they call it, In
Ireland meets but once in two years and, after having given five times
more than they can afford, return home to reimburse themselves by all
country jobs and oppressions, of which some few only are mentioned. [Biennial
squires, to market brought; l.445].
The highwaymen in Ireland are, since
the late wars there, usually called Rapparees, which was a name given
to those Irish soldiers who in small parties used at that time to plunder
Protestants. [Go snacks with rogues and rapparees; l.449].
The army in Ireland are lodged in barracks,
the building and repairing whereof and other charges have cost a prodigious
sum to that unhappy kingdom. [A jail or barrack to repair; l.452].
Meaning Ireland, where he now lives and
probably may die. [That kingdom he hath left his debtor; l.483]
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