Analysis of Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D.
Jonathan Swift 1667 (Dublin) – 1745 (Ireland)
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 rais'd 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 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 rack'd 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,
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 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 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 show'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And, till they drove me out of date,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 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 he's dead.
Besides, his memory decays:
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind:
Forgets the place where last he din'd;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion'd 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 he's past his prime:
He takes an hour to find a rhyme;
His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen;-
But there's no talking to some men!'
And then their tenderness appears,
By adding largely to my years:
'He's older than he would be reckon'd
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 he's 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 d'ye's' come of course,
And servants answer, 'Wo
Scheme | Text too long |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 111101 11010111 11010101 01011011 11011101 11111101 010101101 110110101 110101111 11110111 11011101 110001001 110111001 1010101101 11110101 11011101 11111111 11111111 11110101 11111111 10010111 11111111 11010101 010011101 101111 11111101 11011001 11110101 11001111 11011111 11011111 11011111 11011101 11110101 01101010 111101010 01010111 010111101 11010101 110010111 11010101 1100010101 1101010010 11110010 11110101 111111010 01110101 11011111 1110111 11111101 11110101 11111011 11111111 0111101 01011111 11110001 1111101 01110111 1111111 11110111 01111111 11010011 111111 01111101 111101111 111101011 11111101 11110111 1110101 11110111 11111111 011111010 01110111 11011101 11011101 11111101 1111001 11111111 1111111 11010111 11001101 11011011 1110011 11011111 01110001 1011111 11011111 01011111 1111010010 11110101 11110111 11111101 11111101 11111111 111111010 11111010 01011111 11010111 11001111 111101101 110111101 11011101 11110111 11110111 01110001 11010111 110111110 010101010 11010111 01111111 11010111 11111101 11110101 11111111 11010101 11111111 01011101 01110111 11010101 11001101 11010101 01010101 11011111 010101 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 4,130 |
Words | 822 |
Sentences | 43 |
Stanzas | 19 |
Stanza Lengths | 10, 2, 8, 6, 4, 4, 4, 14, 2, 4, 8, 4, 2, 26, 6, 4, 6, 2, 8 |
Lines Amount | 124 |
Letters per line (avg) | 26 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 171 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 43 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 01, 2023
- 4:12 min read
- 103 Views
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"Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 30 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/24347/verses-on-the-death-of-dr.-swift%2C-d.s.p.d.>.
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