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Jonathan Swift

Jonathan Swift

On the Vowels

We are little airy creatures,
All of different 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.

#Irish #XVIICentury #XVIIICentury

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The Garden Plot

When Naboth’s vineyard look’d so… The king cried out, ‘Would this w… And yet no reason could prevail To bring the owner to a sale. Jezebel saw, with haughty pride,
On a Very Old Glass at Market-Hill

Frail glass! thou mortal art as we… Though none can tell which of us f…
Elegy on Partridge

Well; ’tis as Bickerstaff has gue… Though we all took it for a jest: Partridge is dead; nay more, he di… Ere he could prove the good 'squir… Strange, an astrologer should die
On Snow

From Heaven I fall, though from e… No lady alive can show such a skin… I’m bright as an angel, and light… But heavy and dark, when you squee… Though candour and truth in my asp…
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An Excellent New Song Being the Intended Speech of a Famous Orator Against Peace

An orator dismal of Nottinghamshi… Who has forty years let out his co… Out of zeal for his country, and w… Is come up, vi et armis, to break… He has vamp’d an old speech, and t…
A Gentle Echo on Woman

Shepherd. Echo, I ween, will i… And quaintly answer questions. Sh… Echo. Tr… Shepherd. What must we do our… Echo. Pr…
The Beasts’ Confession

To the Priest, on Observing how m… When beasts could speak (the learn… They still can do so ev’ry day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men.
Robin and Harry

Robin to beggars with a curse, Throws the last shilling in his pu… And when the coachman comes for pa… The rogue must call another day. Grave Harry, when the poor are pr…
Market Women’s Cries

APPLES Come buy my fine wares, Plums, apples and pears. A hundred a penny, In conscience too many:
Jack Frenchman’s Lamentation

Ye Commons and Peers, Pray lend me your ears, I’ll sing you a song, (if I can,) How Lewis le Grand Was put to a stand,
To Quilca, a Country-House in No Very Good Repair

Let me thy Properties explain, A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain; Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smo… Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-… Here Elements have lost their Vse…
Ballad

A WONDERFUL age Is now on the stage: I’ll sing you a song, if I can, How modern Whigs, Dance forty-one jigs,
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 s… But all admire Inigo Jones: So, if this pile of scattered rhym…
Stella’s Birthday March 13, 1727

This day, whate’er the Fates decr… Shall still be kept with joy by me… This day then let us not be told, That you are sick, and I grown ol… Nor think on our approaching ills,
On Ink

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,



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