The towns we took ne’er did us good: 
  What signified the French to beat? 
We spent our money and our blood,
  To make the Dutchmen proud and great: 
    But the Lord of Oxford swears,
    Dunkirk never shall be theirs. 
The Dutch-hearted Whigs may rail and complain;
    But true Englishmen may fill
    A good health to General Hill: 
“For the Queen now enjoys her own again.”

HORACE, EPIST. I, VII
IMITATION OF HORACE
TO LORD OXFORD, A.D. 1713[1]

Harley, the nation’s great support,
Returning home one day from court,
His mind with public cares possest,
All Europe’s business in his breast,
Observed a parson near Whitehall,
Cheap’ning old authors on a stall. 
The priest was pretty well in case,
And show’d some humour in his face;
Look’d with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of size that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to sit still. 
My lord, (who, if a man may say’t,
Loves mischief better than his meat),
Was now disposed to crack a jest
And bid friend Lewis[2] go in quest. 
(This Lewis was a cunning shaver,
And very much in Harley’s favour)—­
In quest who might this parson be,
What was his name, of what degree;
If possible, to learn his story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory. 
  Lewis his patron’s humour knows;
Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter sift;
Found out that it was Doctor Swift,
A clergyman of special note
For shunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care betimes [3] to run him down: 
No libertine, nor over nice,
Addicted to no sort of vice;
Went where he pleas’d, said what he thought;
Not rich, but owed no man a groat;
In state opinions a la mode,
He hated Wharton like a toad;
Had given the faction many a wound,
And libell’d all the junto round;
Kept company with men of wit,
Who often father’d what he writ: 
His works were hawk’d in ev’ry street,
But seldom rose above a sheet: 
Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp
Did very much his genius cramp;
And, since he could not spend his fire,
He now intended[4] to retire. 
  Said Harley, “I desire to know
From his own mouth, if this be so: 
Step to the doctor straight, and say,
I’d have him dine with me to-day.” 
Swift seem’d to wonder what he meant,
Nor could believe my lord had sent;
So never offer’d once to stir,
But coldly said, “Your servant, sir!”
“Does he refuse me?” Harley cry’d: 
“He does; with insolence and pride.” 
  Some few days after, Harley spies
The doctor fasten’d by the eyes
At Charing-cross, among the rout,
Where painted monsters are hung out: 
He pull’d the string, and stopt his[5] coach,
Beck’ning the doctor to approach. 
Swift, who could[6] neither fly nor hide,
Came sneaking to[7] the chariot side,