The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Dr. Swift to Mr. Pope While He Was Writing the Dunciad
POPE has the talent well to speak,
But not to reach the ear;
His loudest voice is low and weak,
The dean too deaf to hear.
A while they on each other look,
Then different studies choose;
The dean sits plodding on a book;
Pope walks, and courts the Muse.
Now backs of letters, though design'd
For those who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with hints, and interlin'd,
Himself can hardly read 'em.
Each atom by some other struck
All turns and motions tries:
Till, in a lump together stuck,
Behold a poem rise:
Yet to the dean his share allot;
He claims it by a canon;
That without which a thing is not,
Is, causa sine quâ non.
Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit;
For, had our deaf divine
Been for your conversation fit,
You had not writ a line.
Of Sherlock[1] thus, for preaching fam'd,
The sexton reason'd well;
And justly half the merit claim'd,
Because he rang the bell.
- ↑ The dean of St. Paul's, father to the bishop.