Poems Chiefly Relating to Irish Politics / Jonathan Swift

Illustrious prince, we're come before ye, Who, more than in our founders, glory To be by you protected; Deign to descend and give us laws, For we are converts to your cause, From this day well-affected.[2]

The noble view of your high merits Has charm'd our thoughts and fix'd our spirits, With zeal so warm and hearty; That we resolved to be devoted, At least until we be promoted, By your just power and party. 

Verses Made for Fruit Women / Jonathan Swift

APPLES

Come buy my fine wares,

Plums, apples, and pears.

A hundred a penny,

In conscience too many:

Come, will you have any?

My children are seven,

I wish them in Heaven;

My husband a sot,

With his pipe and his pot,

Not a farthing will gain them,

And I must maintain them.

ASPARAGUS

Verses Addressed to Swift and to His Memory / Jonathan Swift

TO DR. SWIFT ON HIS BIRTH-DAY[1]

While I the godlike men of old, In admiration wrapt, behold; Revered antiquity explore, And turn the long-lived volumes o'er; Where Cato, Plutarch, Flaccus, shine In every excellence divine; I grieve that our degenerate days Produce no mighty soul like these: Patriot, philosopher, and bard, Are names unknown, and seldom heard.

To Swift on his Birthday / Jonathan Swift

TO THE REVEREND DR. SWIFT

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAPER-BOOK, FINELY BOUND,

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 30, 1732.[1]

BY JOHN, EARL OF ORRERY

To thee, dear Swift, these spotless leaves I send; Small is the present, but sincere the friend. Think not so poor a book below thy care; Who knows the price that thou canst make it bear? Tho' tawdry now, and, like Tyrilla's face, The specious front shines out with borrow'd grace;

To a Lady / Jonathan Swift

WHO DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE SOME VERSES UPON HER

IN THE HEROIC STYLE

After venting all my spite, Tell me, what have I to write? Every error I could find Through the mazes of your mind, Have my busy Muse employ'd, Till the company was cloy'd. Are you positive and fretful, Heedless, ignorant, forgetful? Those, and twenty follies more, I have often told before.

The Stella Poems / Jonathan Swift

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 on the green; So little is thy form declined; Made up so largely in thy mind. O, would it please the gods to split Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit! No age could furnish out a pair Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; With half the lustre of your eyes, With half your wit, your years, and size. And then, before it grew too late, How should I beg of gentle fate, (That either nymph might have her swain,) To split my worship too in twain. 

The Pheasant and the Lark / Jonathan Swift

In ancient times, as bards indite, (If clerks have conn'd the records right.) A peacock reign'd, whose glorious sway His subjects with delight obey: His tail was beauteous to behold, Replete with goodly eyes and gold; Fair emblem of that monarch's guise, Whose train at once is rich and wise; And princely ruled he many regions, And statesmen wise, and valiant legions.

The Logicians Refuted / Jonathan Swift

Logicians have but ill defined As rational, the human kind; Reason, they say, belongs to man, But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove, with great precision, With definition and division, Homo est ratione praeditum; But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, And must, in spite of them, maintain, That man and all his ways are vain; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature;

The Furniture of a Woman's Mind / Jonathan Swift

A set of phrases learn'd by rote;

A passion for a scarlet coat;

When at a play, to laugh or cry,

Yet cannot tell the reason why;

Never to hold her tongue a minute,

While all she prates has nothing in it;

Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit,

And take his nonsense all for wit;

The Beast's Confession / Jonathan Swift

PREFACE

I have been long of opinion, that there is not a more general and greater mistake, or of worse consequences through the commerce of mankind, than the wrong judgments they are apt to entertain of their own talents. I knew a stuttering alderman in London, a great frequenter of coffeehouses, who, when a fresh newspaper was brought in, constantly seized it first, and read it aloud to his brother citizens; but in a manner as little intelligible to the standers-by as to himself. How many pretenders to learning expose themselves, by choosing to discourse on those very parts of science wherewith they are least acquainted! It is the same case in every other qualification.

Strephon and Chloe / Jonathan Swift

Of Chloe all the town has rung, By ev'ry size of poets sung: So beautiful a nymph appears But once in twenty thousand years; By Nature form'd with nicest care, And faultless to a single hair. Her graceful mien, her shape, and face, Confess'd her of no mortal race: And then so nice, and so genteel; Such cleanliness from head to heel; No humours gross, or frouzy steams, No noisome whiffs, or sweaty streams, Before, behind, above, below, Could from her taintless body flow: Would so discreetly things dispose, None ever saw her pluck a rose.[1] Her dearest comrades never caught her Squat on her hams to make maid's water: You'd swear that so divine a creature Felt no necessities of nature. In summer had she walk'd the town,

Riddles / Jonathan Swift

RIDDLES BY DR. SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS. WRITTEN IN OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1724 

The following notice is subjoined to some of these riddles, in the Dublin edition: "About nine or ten years ago, (i.e.about 1724,) some ingenious gentlemen, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons,

Political Poems / Jonathan Swift

Parody ON THE RECORDER OF BLESSINGTON'S ADDRESS TO QUEEN ANNE 

Mr. William Crowe, Recorder of Blessington's Address to her Majesty, as copied from the London Gazette. To the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, The humble Address of the Sovereign, Recorder, Burgesses, and Freemen, of the Borough of Blessington. May it please your Majesty, Though we stand almost last on the roll of boroughs of this your majesty's kingdom of Ireland, and therefore, in good manners to our elder brothers, press but late among the joyful crowd about your royal throne:

Poems to Cadenus and Vanessa / Jonathan Swift

To Love [1] 

In all I wish, how happy should I be, Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee! So weak thou art, that fools thy power despise; And yet so strong, thou triumph'st o'er the wise. Thy traps are laid with such peculiar art, They catch the cautious, let the rash depart. Most nets are fill'd by want of thought and care But too much thinking brings us to thy snare; Where, held by thee, in slavery we stay, And throw the pleasing part of life away. But, what does most my indignation move, Discretion! thou wert ne'er a friend to Love: Thy chief delight is to defeat those arts,

Poems Composed at Market Hill / Jonathan Swift

ON CUTTING DOWN THE THORN AT MARKET-HILL.[1]1727 

At Market-Hill, as well appears By chronicle of ancient date, There stood for many hundred years A spacious thorn before the gate. Hither came every village maid, And on the boughs her garland hung, And here, beneath the spreading shade, Secure from satyrs sat and sung. Sir Archibald,[2] that valorous knight. The lord of all the fruitful plain, Would come to listen with delight, For he was fond of rural strain. (Sir Archibald, whose favourite name Shall stand for ages on record, By Scottish bards of highest fame, Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's lord.[3]) But time with iron teeth, I ween, Has canker'd all its branches round; No fruit or blossom to be seen, Its head reclining toward the ground.

On the Death of Dr. Swift / Jonathan Swift

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.

On Psyche / Jonathan Swift

[Note: Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious lady, mother to the author of the

"Verses" with Pine's Horace; and a favourite with

Swift and Stella.--W. E. B.]

At two afternoon for our Psyche inquire,

Her tea-kettle's on, and her smock at the fire:

So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle;

Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle?

Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race,

Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place.

She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain;

On Poetry: a Rhapsody / Jonathan Swift

All human race would fain be wits, And millions miss for one that hits. Young's universal passion, pride,[1] Was never known to spread so wide. Say, Britain, could you ever boast Three poets in an age at most? Our chilling climate hardly bears A sprig of bays in fifty years; While every fool his claim alleges, As if it grew in common hedges. What reason can there be assign'd For this perverseness in the mind? Brutes find out where their talents lie: A bear will not attempt to fly; A founder'd horse will oft debate, Before he tries a five-barr'd gate; A dog by instinct turns aside, Who sees the ditch too deep and wide. But man we find the only creature Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, With obstinacy fixes there; And, where his genius least inclines, Absurdly bends his whole designs.

Ode on Science / Jonathan Swift

O, heavenly born! in deepest dells

If fairest science ever dwells

Beneath the mossy cave;

Indulge the verdure of the woods,

With azure beauty gild the floods,

And flowery carpets lave.

Judas / Jonathan Swift

By the just vengeance of incensed skies,

Poor Bishop Judas late repenting dies.

The Jews engaged him with a paltry bribe,

Amounting hardly to a crown a-tribe;

Which though his conscience forced him to restore,

(And parsons tell us, no man can do more,)

Yet, through despair, of God and man accurst,

He lost his bishopric, and hang'd or burst.