May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you,
  Whom my presaging thoughts already view
  By Walpole’s conduct fired, and friendship grac’d,
  Still higher in your Prince’s favour plac’d: 
  And lending, here, those awful councils aid,
  Which you, abroad, with such success obey’d! 
  Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear;
  What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

JOHN GAY.

(1685-1732.)

XXXIV.  THE QUIDNUNCKIS.

The following piece was originally claimed for Swift in the edition of his works published in 1749.  But it was undoubtedly written by Gay, being only sent to Swift for perusal.  This explains the fact of its being found amongst the papers of the latter.  The poem is suggested by the death of the Duke Regent of France.

  How vain are mortal man’s endeavours? 
  (Said, at dame Elleot’s,[182] master Travers)
  Good Orleans dead! in truth ’tis hard: 
  Oh! may all statesmen die prepar’d! 
  I do foresee (and for foreseeing
  He equals any man in being)
  The army ne’er can be disbanded. 
  —­I with the king was safely landed. 
  Ah friends! great changes threat the land! 
  All France and England at a stand! 
  There’s Meroweis—­mark! strange work! 
  And there’s the Czar, and there’s the Turk—­
  The Pope—­An India-merchant by
  Cut short the speech with this reply: 
    All at a stand? you see great changes? 
  Ah, sir! you never saw the Ganges: 
  There dwells the nation of Quidnunckis
  (So Monomotapa calls monkeys:)
  On either bank from bough to bough,
  They meet and chat (as we may now): 
  Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug,
  They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug;
  And, just as chance or whim provoke them,
  They either bite their friends, or stroke them. 
    There have I seen some active prig,
  To show his parts, bestride a twig: 
  Lord! how the chatt’ring tribe admire! 
  Not that he’s wiser, but he’s higher: 
  All long to try the vent’rous thing,
  (For power is but to have one’s swing). 
  From side to side he springs, he spurns,
  And bangs his foes and friends by turns. 
  Thus as in giddy freaks he bounces,
  Crack goes the twig, and in he flounces! 
  Down the swift stream the wretch is borne;
  Never, ah never, to return! 
    Zounds! what a fall had our dear brother! 
  Morbleu! cries one; and damme, t’other. 
  The nation gives a general screech;
  None cocks his tail, none claws his breech;
  Each trembles for the public weal,
  And for a while forgets to steal. 
    Awhile all eyes intent and steady
  Pursue him whirling down the eddy: 
  But, out of mind when out of view,
  Some other mounts the twig anew;
  And business on each monkey shore
  Runs the same track it ran before.