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A batter'd shatter'd ash bedstead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;

A back-sword poker, without point;
A pot that's crack'd across, around
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock, without a key;

A wig, with hanging quite grown grey;
A curtain worn to half a stripe;

A pair of bellows, without pipe;

A dish which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle-bottom, wooden platter,
One is for meal and one for water;
There likewise is a copper skillet,
Which runs as fast out as you fill it;
A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all:
And thus his household goods you have all.
These to your Lordship, as a friend,
Till you have built, I freely lend:
They'll serve your Lordship for a shift;
Why not, as well as Doctor Swift?

$239. An Elegy on the Death of Demar the Usurer, who died the 6th of July 1720.

KNOW all men by these presents, Death the

tamer

By mortgage hath secur'd the corpse of Demar:

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praising her Husband to Dr. Swift.

Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound § 241. To Mrs. Houghton of Bormount, upon
Redeem him from his prison under ground.
His heirs might well, of all his wealth possest,
Bestow to bury him one iron chest.

Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know
His faithful steward's in the shades below.
He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare
cloak,

He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk;
And by his looks, had he held out his palms,
He might be thought an object fit for alms.
So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf,
He us'd them full as kindly as himself.

Where'er he went he never saw his betters; Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble

debtors;

And under hand and seal the Irish nation
Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.
He that could once have half a kingdom
bought,

In half a minute is not worth a groat.
His coffers from the coffin could not save,
Nor all his interest keep him from the grave.
A golden monument could not be right,
Because we wish the earth upon him light.
O London tavern! thou hast lost a friend,
Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing
spend:

He touch'd the pence, when others touch'd the pot;

The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the

shot.

Old as he was, no vulgar known disease On him could ever boast a pow'r to seize ;

You always are making a god of your spouse, But this neither reason nor conscience allows : Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, And you adore him because he adores you: Your argument's weak, and so you will find; For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.

§ 242. Dr. Delany's Villa.

WOULD you that Delville I describe ?
Believe me, Sir, I will not jibe;
For who would be satirical
Upon a thing so very small?

You scarce upon the borders enter,
Before you're at the very centre.
A single crow can make it night,
When o'er your farm she takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Observe a vast variety;

Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs,
And hills, and dales, and woods, and fields,
And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields;
All to your haggard brought so cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping:
A razor, though to say 't I'm loth,
Would shave you and your meadows both.

* A tavern in Dublin where Demar kept his office. + These four lines were written by Stella.

Though small's the farm, yet there's a house You say you will eat grass on his grave: a

Full large to entertain a mouse;

But where a rat is dreaded more
Than savage Calydonian boar;
For, if it's enter'd by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.

A little riv'let seems to steal
Down through a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leek;
And this you call your sweet Meander,
Which might be suck'd up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill
To scoop the channel of the rill:
For sure you'd make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city-gutter.

Next come I to your kitchen-garden,

Christian eat grass!

Whereby you now confess yourself to be a

goose or an ass:

But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye;

Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true story:

And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master, what care I? [Mary. And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Every body knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil; [should be civil. I am but a poor servant, but I think gentlefolks Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here; [the year; I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in

Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in; And Saunders the man says you are always

And round this garden is a walk,

No longer than a tailor's chalk.
Thus I compare what space is in it;
A snail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze
Up through a tuft you call your trees:
And, once a year, a single rose
Peeps from the bud, but never blows;
In vain then you expect its bloom!
It cannot blow, from want of room.

In short, in all your boasted seat, There's nothing but yourself that's great.

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He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dishclout to his tail."

And now I must go and get Saunders to direct this letter;

For I write but a sad scrawl, but my sister Marget she writes better.

§ 243. Mary the Cook-maid's Letter to Dr. Well, but I must run and make the bed, before

Sheridan. 1723.

WELL, if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound my head!

You a gentleman! marry come up! I wonder where you were bred.

I'm sure such words do not become a man of your cloth:

my master comes from pray'rs : And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up stairs:

Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand:

And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to command, MARY.

I would not give such language to a dog, faith § 244. Riddles, by Dr. Swift and his Friends.

and troth.

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Written in or about the Year 1724.

On a Pen.

IN youth exalted high in air, Or bathing in the waters fair, Nature to form me took delight, And clad my body all in white, My person tall, and slender waist, On either side with fringes grac'd; Till me that tyrant man espied, And dragg'd me from my mother's side. No wonder now I look so thin; The tyrant stripp'd me to the skin; My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropp'd; At head and foot my body lopp'd: And then, with heart more hard than stone, He pick'd my marrow from the bone. To vex me more, he took a freak To slit my tongue, and make me speak: But that which wonderful appears; I speak to eyes, and not to ears. He oft employs me in disguise, And makes me tell a thousand lies: To me he chiefly gives in trust To please his malice or his lust;

From me no secret he can hide,
I see his vanity and pride:
And my delight is to expose
His follies to his greatest foes.
All languages I can command,
Yet not a word I understand.
Without my aid, the best divine
In learning would not know a line;
The lawyer must forget his pleading;
The scholar could not show his reading.
Nay, man, my master, is my slave:
I give command to kill or save;
Can grant ten thousand pounds a year,
And make a beggar's brat a peer.

But while I thus my life relate,
I only hasten on my fate.

My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd,
I hardly now can force a word.
I die unpitied and forgot,

And on some dunghill left to rot.

§ 245. On Gold.

ALL-RULING tyrant of the earth, To vilest slaves I owe my birth. How is the greatest monarch blest, When in my gaudy liv'ry drest! No haughty nymph has pow'r to run From me, or my embraces shun. Stabb'd to the heart, condemn'd to flame, My constancy is still the same. The favourite messenger of Jove, The Lemnian God, consulting strove To make me glorious to the sight Of mortals, and the gods' delight. Soon would their altars' flame expire If I refus'd to lend them fire.

$246. On a Corkscrew. THOUGH I, alas! a prisoner be, My trade is, prisoners to set free. No slave his lord's commands obeys With such insinuating ways; My genius piercing, sharp, and bright, Wherein the men of wit delight. The clergy keep me for their ease, And turn and wind me as they please. A new and wondrous art I show Of raising spirits from below; In scarlet some, and some in white: They rise, walk round, yet never fright. In at each mouth the spirits pass, Distinctly seen as through a glass; O'er head and body make a rout, And drive at last all secrets out: And still the more I show my art, The more they open ev'ry heart.

A greater chemist none than I, Who from materials hard and dry Have taught men to extract with skill More precious juice than from a still. Although I'm often out of case, I'm not asham'd to show my face. Though at the tables of the great I near the sideboard take my seat;

Yet the plain squire, when dinner's done,
Is never pleas'd till I make one :
He kindly bids me near him stand,
And often takes me by the hand.
I twice a day a hunting go,
Nor ever fail to seize my foe;
And, when I have him by the pole,
I drag him upwards from his hole;
Though some are of so stubborn kind,
I'm forc'd to leave a limb behind.

I hourly wait some fatal end;
For I can break, but scorn to bend.

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I AM jet-black, as you may see,
The son of Pitch and gloomy Night:
Yet all that know me will agree

I'm dead, except I live in light.
Sometimes in panegyric high,
Like lofty Pindar I can soar;
And raise a virgin to the sky,
Or sink her to a pocky whore.
My blood this day is very sweet,
To-morrow of a bitter juice;
Like milk, 'tis cried about the street,
And so applied to different use.
Most wondrous is my magic pow'r,
For with one color I can paint;
I'll make the devil a saint this hour,
Next make a devil of a saint.
Through distant regions I can fly,
Provide me with but paper wings;
And fairly show a reason why
There should be quarrels among kings.
And, after all, you'll think it odd,

When learned doctors will dispute, That I should point the word of God,

And show where they can best confute. Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats; "Tis I that must their lands convey, And strip the clients to their coats; Nay, give their very souls away.

$249. On the Five Senses. ALL of us in one you'll find, Brethren of a wondrous kind; Ye among us all no brother Knows one tittle of the other. We in frequent councils are, And our marks of things declare,

Where to us unknown a clerk
Sits and takes them in the dark.
He's the register of all

In our ken, both great and small;
By us forms his laws and rules;
He's our master, we his tools,
Yet we can, with greatest ease,
Turn and wind him where we please.
One of us alone can sleep,
Yet no watch the rest will keep ;
But the moment that he closes,
Ev'ry brother else reposes.

If wine's bought, or victuals drest, One enjoys them for the rest.

Pierce us all with wounding steel, One for all of us will feel.

Though ten thousand cannons roar, Add to them ten thousand more, Yet but one of us is found Who regards the dreadful sound. Do what is not fit to tell, There's but one of us can smell.

$ 250. On an Echo.
NEVER sleeping, still awake,
Pleasing most when most I speak :
The delight of old and young,
Though I speak without a tongue:
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret and rave and gabble
Like the labourers of Babel.
Now I am a dog or cow,
I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can sing
Like the warblers of the spring.
Let the love-sick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice;
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I.with either sport and toy.
Though a lady, I am stout,

Drums and trumpets bring me out;
Then I clash, and roar and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,

When I'm vex'd, can't keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear.

Much I dread the courtier's fate,
When his merit's out of date;
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.

$251. On a Shadow in a Glass. By something form'd, I nothing am, Yet every thing that you can name; In no place have I ever been, Yet ev'ry where I may be seen; In all things false, yet always true, I'm still the same, but ever new. Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear, Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear, Yet neither smell, see, taste, or hear.

All shapes and features I can boast,
No flesh, no bones, no blood-no ghost:
All colours, without paint, put on,
And change like the cameleon.
Swiftly I come and enter there
Where not a chink lets in the air;
Like thought, I'm in a moment gone,
Nor can I ever be alone;

All things on earth I imitate
Faster than nature can create;
Sometimes imperial robes I wear,
Anon in beggar's rags appear;
A giant now, and straight an elf,
I'm ev'ry one, but ne'er myself;
Ne'er sad, I mourn; ne'er glad, rejoice;
I move my lips, but want a voice;
I ne'er was born, nor e'er can die :
Then pr'ythee tell me, what am I?

$252. On Time.

EVER eating, never cloying, All devouring, all destroying; Never finding full repast, Till I eat the world at last.

§ 253. On the Vowels.

We are little airy creatures, All of diff'rent voice and features: One of us in glass is set, One of us you'll find in jet; T' other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within; If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you.

§ 254. On Snow.

FROM heaven I fall, tho' from earth I begin, No lady alive can shew such a skin. I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather, But heavy and dark when you squeeze me together.

Though candor and truth in my aspect I bear, Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare. Though so much of heaven appears in my

make,

The foulest impressions I easily take.
My parent and I produce one another;
The mother the daughter, the daughter the
mother.

§ 255. On a Cannon.

BEGOTTEN, and born, and dying, with noise, The terror of women, and pleasure of boys; Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind, I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confin'd. For silver and gold I don't trouble my head, But all I delight in is pieces of lead;

Except when I trade with a ship or a town,
Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
One property more I would have you remark,
No lady was ever more fond of a spark;
The moment I get one, my soul's all afire,
And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.

$256. To Quilca, a Country-House of Dr.
Sheridan, in no very good Repair. 1725.
LET me thy properties explain :
A rotten cabin, dropping rain;
Chimneys with scorn rejecting smoke;
Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads, broke.
Here elements have lost their uses:
Air ripens not, nor earth produces;
In vain we make poor Shelah toil,
Fire will not roast, nor water boil.
Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
The goddess Want in triumph reigns:
And her chief officers of state,

Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.

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"Let me have your advice in a weighty affair: This Hamilton's Bawn whilst it sticks on my hand,

I lose by the house what I get by the land;
But how to dispose of it to the best bidder,
For a barrack or malt-house, we now must
consider.

"First let me suppose I make it a malt-house, Here I have computed the profit will fall thus; There's nine hundred pounds for labor and grain, [main; I increase it to twelve, so three hundred reA handsome addition for wine and good cheer, Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a year: With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored;

No little scrub joint shall come on my board,
And you and the Dean no more shall combine
To stint me at night to one bottle of wine;
Nor shall I, for his humor, permit you to pur-
loin

A stone and a quarter of beef from my sirloin.
If I make it a barrack, the crown is my tenant;
My dear, I have ponder'd again and again on't:
In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent;
Whatever they give me, I must be content,
Or join with the court in every debate,
And rather than that I would lose my estate."
Thus ended the Knight. Thus began his
meek wife:

"It must and it shall be a barrack, my life. I'm grown a mere mopus; no company comes But a rabble of tenants and rusty dull rums || :

• The name of an Irish servant.

With parsons what lady can keep herself clean? I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the Dean. But if you will give us a barrack, my dear, The Captain, I'm sure, will always come here; I then shall not value his Deanship a straw, For the Captain, I warrant, will keep him in

awe;

Or, should he pretend to be brisk and alert, Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert;

That men of his coat should be minding their pray'rs,

And not among ladies to give themselves airs."
Thus argued my Lady, but argued in vain;
The Knight his opinion resolv'd to maintain.
But Hannah, who listen'd to all that was
past,

And could not endure so vulgar a taste,
As soon as her Ladyship call'd to be dress'd,
Cried, "Madam, why surely my master's pos

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And now my dream's out; for I was a-dream'd That I saw a huge rat-O dear, how I scream'd! And after, methought, I had lost my new shoes; And Molly she said I should hear some ill news.

"Dear madam, had you but the spirit to tease, You might have a barrack whenever you please: And, madam, I always believ'd you so stout, That for twenty denials you would not give out. If I had a husband like him, I purtest, Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest;

And, rather than come in the same pair of sheets With such a cross man, I would lie in the

streets:

But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent,
And worry him out till he gives his consent.
Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think,
An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink:
For if a new crotchet comes into my brain,
I can't get it out, though I never so fain.
I fancy already a barrack contriv'd -
At Hamilton's Bawn, and the troop is arriv'd;
Of this to be sure Sir Arthur has warning,
And waits on the Captain betimes the next
morning.
[behave:
Now see, when they meet, how their honors
Noble Captain, your servant.'- Sir Arthur,

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your slave:

You honor me much. The honor is mine.' "Twas a sad rainy night.'-' But the morning is fine.'

'Pray how does my Lady?'—'My wife's at your service.'

I think I have seen her picture by Jervas.'—

+ Sir Arthur Acheson, at whose seat this was written.

A large old house, two miles from Sir Arthur's seat.

§ The army in Ireland is lodged in strong buildings over the whole kingdom, called barracks.

A cant word in Ireland for a poor country-clergyman.
Two of Sir Arthur's managers,

My lady's waiting-woman.

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