A Wicked Treasonable Libel[1]

While the king and his ministers keep such a pother,
And all about changing one whore for another,
Think I to myself, what need all this strife,
His majesty first had a whore of a wife,
And surely the difference mounts to no more
Than, now he has gotten a wife of a whore.
Now give me your judgment a very nice case on;
Each queen has a son, say which is the base one?
Say which of the two is the right Prince of Wales,
To succeed, when, (God bless him,) his majesty fails;
Perhaps it may puzzle our loyal divines
To unite these two Protestant parallel lines,
From a left-handed wife, and one turn'd out of doors,
Two reputed king's sons, both true sons of whores;
No law can determine it, which is first oars.
But, alas! poor old England, how wilt thou be master'd;
For, take which you please, it must needs be a bastard.

Jonathan Swift

Jonathan Swift was an Anglo-Irish satirist, essayist, political pamphleteer, poet and cleric who became Dean of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin. Swift is remembered for works such as "A Tale of a Tub" (1704), "An Argument Against Abolishing Christianity" (1712), and "Gulliver's Travels" (1726). Swift originally published all of his works under pseudonyms—such as Lemuel Gulliver, Isaac Bickerstaff, Drapier's Letters as MB Drapier—and works were sometimes attributed to Anonymous.

Jonathan Swift

Upon The Horrid Plot

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

A Reply, By Sheridan, To Delany

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

To The Reverend Dr. Swift

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

On Gold

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

English

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Ballad

To the tune of "Commons and Peers."

        A wonderful age
        Is now on the stage:
I'll sing you a song, if I can,
        How modern Whigs,
        Dance forty-one jigs,[1]
But God bless our gracious Queen Anne.

        The kirk with applause
        Is established by laws
As the orthodox church of the nation.
        The bishops do own
        It's as good as their own.
And this, Sir, is call'd moderation.

        It's no riddle now
        To let you see how
A church by oppression may speed;
        Nor is't banter or jest,
        That the kirk faith is best
On the other side of the Tweed.

        For no soil can suit
        With every fruit,
Even so, Sir, it is with religion;
        The best ch...

Jonathan Swift

The Windsor Prophecy[1]


"About three months ago, at Windsor, a poor knight's widow was buried in the cloisters. In digging the grave, the sexton struck against a small leaden coffer, about half a foot in length, and four inches wide. The poor man, expecting he had discovered a treasure, opened it with some difficulty; but found only a small parchment, rolled up very fast, put into a leather case; which case was tied at the top, and sealed with St. George, the impression on black wax, very rude and gothic. The parchment was carried to a gentleman of learning, who found in it the following lines, written in a black old English letter, and in the orthography of the age, which seems to be about two hundred years ago. I made a shift to obtain a copy of it; but the transcriber, I find, hath in many parts altered the spelling to the modern way. The original, as I...

Jonathan Swift

The Famous Speech-Maker Of England

OR BARON (ALIAS BARREN) LOVEL'S CHARGE AT THE ASSIZES AT EXON, APRIL 5, 17IO

Risum teneatis? - HORAT., Ars Poetica, 5.

            From London to Exon,
By special direction,
Came down the world's wonder,
Sir Salathiel Blunder,
With a quoif on his head
As heavy as lead;
And thus opened and said:

Gentlemen of the Grand Inquest,

            Her majesty, mark it,
            Appointed this circuit
            For me and my brother,
            Before any other;
            To execute laws,
            As you may suppose,
    Upon such as offenders have been.
            So then, not to scatter
            More words on the matter,
    We're beginning just now to begin.
But hold - first and foremost, I must enter a...

Jonathan Swift

A Satyre On Charles II

In th' isle of Britain, long since famous grown
For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,
There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive,
The easiest King and best bred man alive.
Him no ambition moves to get reknown
Like the French fool, that wanders up and down
Starving his people, hazarding his crown.
Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such,
And love he loves, for he loves f*cking much.
Nor are his high desires above his strength:
His scepter and his prick are of a length;
And she may sway the one who plays with th' other,
And make him little wiser than his brother.
Poor Prince! thy prick, like thy buffoons at court,
Will govern thee because it makes thee sport.
'Tis sure the sauciest prick that e'er did swive,
The proudest, peremptoriest prick alive...

John Wilmot

The Author Upon Himself

A few of the first lines were wanting in the copy sent us by a friend of the Author's from London. - Dublin Edition.

        *        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *        *
        *        *    By an old    -    -    pursued,
A crazy prelate,[1] and a royal prude;[2]
By dull divines, who look with envious eyes
On ev'ry genius that attempts to rise;
And pausing o'er a pipe, with doubtful nod,
Give hints, that poets ne'er believe in God.
So clowns on scholars as on wizards look,
And take a folio for a conj'ring book.
    Swift had the sin of wit, no venial crime:
Nay, 'twas affirm'd, he sometimes dealt in rhyme;
Humour and mirth had place in all he writ;
He reconcil'd divinity and wit:
He moved and bow'd, and talk'd w...

Jonathan Swift

On Noisy Tom; Horace, Part Of Book I, Sat. VI, Paraphrased

If Noisy Tom[1] should in the senate prate,
"That he would answer both for church and state;
And, farther, to demonstrate his affection,
Would take the kingdom into his protection;"
All mortals must be curious to inquire,
Who could this coxcomb be, and who his sire?
"What! thou, the spawn of him[2] who shamed our isle,
Traitor, assassin, and informer vile!
Though by the female side,[3] you proudly bring,
To mend your breed, the murderer of a king:
What was thy grandsire,[4] but a mountaineer,
Who held a cabin for ten groats a-year:
Whose master Moore[5] preserved him from the halter,
For stealing cows! nor could he read the Psalter!
Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chase
Thy founder's grandson,[6] and usurp his place?
Just Heaven! to see the dunghill ba...

Jonathan Swift