bs at once upon her;
Made her retire, and quit her right,
And loudly cried--"A bite! bite!"

THE MORAL

Thus did the Grecian wooden horse
Conceal a fatal armed force:
No sooner brought within the walls,
But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.

[Footnote 1: _See post_, "A Tale of a Nettle."]

[Footnote 2: The Church of England.]

[Footnote 3: A Scotch name for bitch, alluding to the kirk.]

HORACE, BOOK III, ODE II

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER
SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716

These spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of
those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes,
evince the firmness of Swift's political principles and personal
attachment.--_Scott._ See Moral Essays, Epistle V, Pope's "Works," edit.
Elwin and Courthope, iii, 191.--_W. E. B._

How blest is he who for his country dies,
Since death pursues the coward as he flies!
The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack;
With trembling knees, and Terror at his back;
Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind,
Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind.
Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine;
But shall with unattainted honour shine;
Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down,
Just as the rabble please to smile or frown.
Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try
Some new unbeaten passage to the sky;
Where Jove a seat among the gods will give
To those who die, for meriting to live.
Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward;
Within our breast be every secret barr'd!
He who betrays his friend, shall never be
Under one roof, or in one ship, with me:
For who with traitors would his safety trust,
Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just?
And though the villain'scape a while, he feels
Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.

ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER

Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry,
The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh.
In those we love not, we no danger see,
And were they hang'd, there would no danger be.
But we must silent be, amidst our fears,
And not believe our senses, but the Peers.
So ravishers, that know no sense of shame,
First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.

A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH

High Church is undone,
As sure as a gun,
For old Peter Patch is departed;
And Eyres and Delaune,
And the rest of that spawn,
Are tacking about broken-hearted.

For strong Gill of Sarum,
That _decoctum