« ForrigeFortsett »
Him for a happy man I own,
VERSEs made for women who cry apples, &c.
ON I O N S.
OME, follow me by the smell,
Here's delicate onions to sell,
Or elfe you may spare
Your mistress a share,
She cannot discover
The breath of her lover, But think it as sweet as her own.
ÖY E R
Ö Y S T E R S.
My masters, come buy, i
Your ftomach they settle,
They'll make you a dad
They'll please to che life ;
Leave off swearing
Better ne'er was try'd. ,
O R A N G E S.
ale. Well roasted with sugar and wine in a cup, They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks fup.
Thou grand deluder, were it not for thee?
Where held by thee, in slavery we stay,
Malahide, about five miles from Dublin, famous for berrings.
But what does most my indignation move, Discretion, thou wert ne'er a friend to Love ! Thy chief delight is to defeat those arts, By which he kindles mutual flames in hearts; While the blind loit'ring god is at his play, 15 Thou steal'ft his golden pointed darts away ; Those darts which never fail ; and in their stead Convey'st malignant arrows tipt with lead : - The heedless god suspecting no deceits, Shoots on, and thinks he has done wondrous feats ; But the poor nymph, who feels her vitals burn, And from her shepherd can find no return, Laments and rages power
divine, When, curs’d Difcretion! all the fault was thine. Cupid and Hymen thou hast set at odds,
25 And bred such feuds betwixt those kindred gods, That Venus cannot reconcile her sons ; When one appears, away the other runs. - The former scales, wherein he us’d to poise Love against love, and equal joys with joys, 30 Are now fill'd up with avarice and pride, Where titles, power, and riches still subside. Then, gentle Venus, to thy father run, And tell him how thy children are undone ; Prepare his bolts to give one fatal blow,
35 And strike Discretion to the lades below.
The following lines were wrote upon a very old glass of Sir ARTHUR Acheson's.
Tho' none can tell, which of us first shall die.
Anfwered extempore by Dr SWIFT. We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
, May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by na
Verses cut by two of the Dean's friends upon
a pane of glafs in one of his parlours. A
Bard, on whom Phoebus his fpirit bestow'd,
Resolving t'acknowledge the bounty he ow'd, Found out a new method at once of confefling, And making the most of fo mighty a blessing. To the god he'd be grateful, but mortals he'd choufe By making his patrón preside in his house;
6 And wisely foresaw this advantage from thence, That the god would in honour bear most of th' ex
pence : So the bard he finds drink, and leaves Phebus to treat With the thoughts he inspires, regardless of meat. jo? Hence they that come hither expecting to dine, Are always sobb’d of with sheer wit and sheer wine.
On another window.
RE the guests of this house still doom'd to be
cheated ? Sure the fates have decreed they by halves should be
treated. In the day of good John t, if you came here to dine, You had choice of good meat, no choice of good wine.
* These were written by Dr Delany in conjunction with Stella, and produced the verses, intitled, Apollo to the Dean. See vol. 6. p. 267.
+ Dr John Stearne, late Lord Bishop of Clogher, who had been the predecessor of Dr Swift in the deanery of St Patrick's, and was always distinguished for his great hospitality.