To thee, what oft I vainly strive to hide,
That scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride;
From thee whatever virtue takes its rise,
Grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice;
Such were thy rules to be poetically great: 
“Stoop not to interest, flattery, or deceit;
Nor with hired thoughts be thy devotion paid;
Learn to disdain their mercenary aid;
Be this thy sure defence, thy brazen wall,
Know no base action, at no guilt turn pale;[4]
And since unhappy distance thus denies
T’expose thy soul, clad in this poor disguise;
Since thy few ill-presented graces seem
To breed contempt where thou hast hoped esteem—­”
   Madness like this no fancy ever seized,
Still to be cheated, never to be pleased;
Since one false beam of joy in sickly minds
Is all the poor content delusion finds.—­
There thy enchantment broke, and from this hour
I here renounce thy visionary power;
And since thy essence on my breath depends
Thus with a puff the whole delusion ends.

[Footnote 1:  Dorothy, Sir William Temple’s wife, a daughter of Sir Peter Osborne.  She was in some way related to Swift’s mother, which led to Temple taking Swift into his family.  Dorothy died in January, 1695, at Moor Park, aged 65, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.  Sir William died in January, 1698, “and with him,” says Swift, “all that was good and amiable among men.”  He was buried in Westminster Abbey by the side of his wife.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 2:  Swift’s poetical name for Dorothy, Lady Temple.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 3:  “—­when swift Camilla scours the plain,
    Flies o’er th’unbending corn, and skims along the main.” 
POPE, Essay on Criticism, 372-3.]

[Footnote 4:  “Hic murus aheneus esto,
  Nil conseire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa.” 
HOR., Epist. 1, I, 60.]

WRITTEN IN A LADY’S IVORY TABLE-BOOK, 1698

Peruse my leaves thro’ ev’ry part,
And think thou seest my owner’s heart,
Scrawl’d o’er with trifles thus, and quite
As hard, as senseless, and as light;
Expos’d to ev’ry coxcomb’s eyes,
But hid with caution from the wise. 
Here you may read, “Dear charming saint;”
Beneath, “A new receipt for paint:” 
Here, in beau-spelling, “Tru tel deth;”
There, in her own, “For an el breth:” 
Here, “Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!”
There, “A safe way to use perfume:” 
Here, a page fill’d with billets-doux;
On t’other side, “Laid out for shoes”—­
“Madam, I die without your grace”—­
“Item, for half a yard of lace.” 
Who that had wit would place it here,
For ev’ry peeping fop to jeer? 
To think that your brains’ issue is
Exposed to th’excrement of his,
In pow’r of spittle and a clout,
Whene’er he please, to blot it out;
And then, to heighten the disgrace,
Clap his own nonsense in the place. 
Whoe’er expects to hold his part
In such a book, and such a heart,
If he be wealthy, and a fool,
Is in all points the fittest tool;
Of whom it may be justly said,
He’s a gold pencil tipp’d with lead.