Jonathan Swift
The Progress of Poetry
The Farmer’s Goose, who in the Stubble, Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble; Grown fat with Corn and Sitting still, Can scarce get o’er the Barn-Door Sill: And hardly waddles forth, to cool Her
The Lady's Dressing Room
Five hours, (and who can do it less in?) By haughty Celia spent in dressing; The goddess from her chamber issues, Arrayed in lace, brocades, and tissues. Strephon, who found the room was void
Verses on the Death of Doctor Swift
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
Elegy Upon Tiger
Her dead lady’s joy and comfort, Who departed this life The last day of March, 1727: To the great joy of Bryan That his antagonist is gone. And is poor Tiger laid at last
Stella's Birthday March 13, 1719
Stella this day is thirty-four, (We shan’t dispute a year or more:) However, Stella, be not troubled, Although thy size and years are doubled, Since first I saw thee at sixteen, The brightest virgin
Advice to the Grub Street Verse-writers
Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets haste; Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, Not yet consign’d to paste; I know a trick to make you thrive; O, ’tis a quaint
To Stella, Who Collected and Transcribed His Poems
As, when a lofty pile is raised, We never hear the workmen praised, Who bring the lime, or place the stones; But all admire Inigo Jones: So, if this pile of scattered rhymes Should
Oysters
Charming oysters I cry: My masters, come buy, So plump and so fresh, So sweet is their flesh, No Colchester oyster Is sweeter and moister: Your stomach they settle, And rouse up your mettle:
The Place of the Damned
All folks who pretend to religion and grace, Allow there’s a HELL, but dispute of the place: But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined The place of the damned – I’ll tell
Mrs Frances Haris's Petition
To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland, The humble petition of Frances Harris, Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries; Humble sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady
A Satirical Elegy
On the Death of a Late FAMOUS GENERAL His Grace! impossible! what dead! Of old age, too, and in his bed! And could that Mighty Warrior fall? And so inglorious, after all! Well, since
On Stella's Birth-Day 1719
Stella this Day is thirty four, (We shan’t dispute a Year or more) However Stella, be not troubled, Although thy Size and Years are doubled, Since first I saw Thee at Sixteen The brightest
A Beautiful Young Nymph Going To Bed
Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane, For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain; Never did Covent Garden boast So bright a batter’d, strolling Toast; No drunken Rake to pick her up, No Cellar where on Tick
The Beasts' Confession
To the Priest, on Observing how most Men mistake their own Talents When beasts could speak (the learned say, They still can do so ev’ry day), It seems, they had religion then, As much
A Description of the Morning
Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach Appearing, show’d the ruddy morn’s approach. Now Betty from her master’s bed had flown, And softly stole to discompose her own. The slip-shod ‘prentice from his master’s