On the Death of Dr. Swift

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1731 [1]

Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld, "Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose, qui ne nous deplait pas."

This maxim was No. 99 in the edition of 1665, and was one of those suppressed by the author in his later editions. In the edition published by Didot Freres, 1864, it is No. 15 in the first supplement. See it commented upon by Lord Chesterfield in a letter to his son, Sept. 5, 1748, where he takes a similar view to that expressed by Swift.--W. E. B.

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 raised above our size. Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low? I love my friend as well as you: [2]But why should he obstruct my view? Then let me have the higher post: [3]Suppose it but an inch at most. If in battle you should find One whom you love of all mankind, Had some heroic action done, A champion kill'd, or trophy won; Rather than thus be overtopt, Would you not wish his laurels cropt? Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Lies rackt 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 breth'ren write as well as he? But rather than they should excel, He'd 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 an 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!" [4]I grieve to be outdone by Gay In my own hum'rous biting way. Arbuthnot is no more my friend, Who dares to irony pretend, Which I was born to introduce, Refin'd it first, and shew'd 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 mortify'd my pride, And made me throw my pen aside; If with such talents Heav'n 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