Another, At Chester (Epigrams On Windows)

My landlord is civil,
But dear as the d - l:
Your pockets grow empty
With nothing to tempt ye;
The wine is so sour,
'Twill give you a scour,
The beer and the ale
Are mingled with stale.
The veal is such carrion,
A dog would be weary on.
All this I have felt,
For I live on a smelt.

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

Epitaph In Berkeley Church-Yard, Gloucestershire

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

On A Curate's Complaint Of Hard Duty

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Louisa[1] To Strephon. 1724

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Verses Sent To The Dean On His Birth-Day, With Pine's Horace, Finely Bound. By Dr. J. Sican[1]

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

English

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Another, At Chester (Epigrams On Windows)

    The walls of this town
    Are full of renown,
And strangers delight to walk round 'em:
    But as for the dwellers,
    Both buyers and sellers,
For me, you may hang 'em, or drown 'em.

Jonathan Swift

Another, At Chester (Epigrams On Windows)

The church and clergy here, no doubt,
    Are very near a-kin;
Both weather-beaten are without,
    And empty both within.

Jonathan Swift

At An Inn In England (Epigrams On Windows)

The glass, by lovers' nonsense blurr'd,
    Dims and obscures our sight;
So, when our passions Love has stirr'd,
    It darkens Reason's light.

Jonathan Swift

Dean Smedley's Petition To The Duke Of Grafton[1]

Non domus et fundus, non aeris acervus et auri. - HOR.
Epist., I, ii, 47.

It was, my lord, the dexterous shift
Of t'other Jonathan, viz. Swift,
But now St. Patrick's saucy dean,
With silver verge, and surplice clean,
Of Oxford, or of Ormond's grace,
In looser rhyme to beg a place.
A place he got, yclept a stall,
And eke a thousand pounds withal;
And were he less a witty writer,
He might as well have got a mitre.
    Thus I, the Jonathan of Clogher,
In humble lays my thanks to offer,
Approach your grace with grateful heart,
My thanks and verse both void of art,
Content with what your bounty gave,
No larger income do I crave:
Rejoicing that, in better times,
Grafton requires my loyal lines.
Proud! while my patron is polite,
...

Jonathan Swift

Dean Swift At Sir Arthur Acheson's In The North Of Ireland

The Dean would visit Market-Hill,
    Our invitation was but slight;
I said - "Why let him, if he will:"
    And so I bade Sir Arthur write.

His manners would not let him wait,
    Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
    And so we see him at our gate
    Three days before he was expected,

After a week, a month, a quarter,
    And day succeeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure,
    Though not a soul would have him stay.

I've said enough to make him blush,
    Methinks, or else the devil's in't;
But he cares not for it a rush,
    Nor for my life will take the hint.

But you, my dear, may let him know,
    In civil language, if he stays,
How deep and foul the roads may grow,
    And that he may command the ...

Jonathan Swift

On A Printer's[1] Being Sent To Newgate

Better we all were in our graves,
Than live in slavery to slaves;
Worse than the anarchy at sea,
Where fishes on each other prey;
Where every trout can make as high rants
O'er his inferiors, as our tyrants;
And swagger while the coast is clear:
But should a lordly pike appear,
Away you see the varlet scud,
Or hide his coward snout in mud.
Thus, if a gudgeon meet a roach,
He dares not venture to approach;
Yet still has impudence to rise,
And, like Domitian,[2] leap at flies.

Jonathan Swift