A Description of a City Shower

CAREFUL Observers may fortel the Hour

(By sure Prognosticks) when to dread a Show'r:

While Rain depends, the pensive Cat gives o'er

Her Frolicks, and pursues her Tail no more.

Returning Home at Night, you'll find the Sink

Strike your offended Sense with double Stink.

If you be wise, then go not far to Dine,

You spend in Coach-hire more than save in Wine.

A coming Show'r your shooting Corns presage,

Old Aches throb, your hollow Tooth will rage.

Sauntring in Coffee-house is Dulman seen;

He damns the Climate, and complains of Spleen.

Mean while the South rising with dabbled Wings,

A Sable Cloud a-thwart the Welkin flings,

That swill'd more Liquor than it could contain,

And like a Drunkard gives it up again.

Brisk Susan whips her Linen from the Rope,

While the first drizzling Show'r is born aslope,

Such is that Sprinkling which some careless Quean

Flirts on you from her Mop, but not so clean.

You fly, invoke the Gods; then turning, stop

To rail; she singing, still whirls on her Mop.

Not yet, the Dust had shun'd th'unequal Strife,

But aided by the Wind, fought still for Life;

And wafted with its Foe by violent Gust,

'Twas doubtful which was Rain, and which was Dust.

Ah! where must needy Poet seek for Aid,

When Dust and Rain at once his Coat invade;

Sole Coat, where Dust cemented by the Rain,

Erects the Nap, and leaves a cloudy Stain.

Now in contiguous Drops the Flood comes down,

Threat'ning with Deloge this Devoted Town.

To Shops in Crouds the dagled Females fly,

Pretend to cheapen Goods, but nothing buy.

The Templer spruce, while ev'ry Spout's a-broach,

Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a Coach.

The tuck'd-up Sempstress walks with hasty Strides,

While Streams run down her oil'd Umbrella's Sides.

Here various Kinds by various Fortunes led,

Commence Acquaintance underneath a Shed.

Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,

Forget their Fewds, and join to save their Wigs.

Box'd in a Chair the Beau impatient sits,

While Spouts run clatt'ring o'er the Roof by Fits;

And ever and anon with frightful Din

The Leather sounds, he trembles from within.

So when Troy Chair-men bore the Wooden Steed,

Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed,

(Those Bully Greeks, who, as the Moderns do,

Instead of paying Chair-men, run them thro'.)

Laoco'n struck the Outside with his Spear,

And each imprison'd Hero quak'd for Fear.

Now from all Parts the swelling Kennels flow,

And bear their Trophies with them as they go:

Filth of all Hues and Odours seem to tell

What Streets they sail'd from, by the Sight and Smell.

They, as each Torrent drives, with rapid Force

From Smithfield, or St.Pulchre's shape their Course,

And in huge Confluent join at Snow-Hill Ridge,

Fall from the Conduit prone to Holborn-Bridge.

Sweepings from Butchers Stalls, Dung, Guts, and Blood, }

Drown'd Puppies, stinking Sprats, all drench'd in Mud, }

Dead Cats and Turnips-Tops come tumbling down the Flood. }

Jonathan Swift

The Progress of Poetry

THE Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,

Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble;

Grown fat with Corn and Sitting still,

Can scarce get o'er the Barn-Door Sill:

And hardly waddles forth, to cool

Her Belly in the neighb'ring Pool:

Nor loudly cackles at the Door;

For Cackling shews the Goose is poor.

But when she must be turn'd to graze,

And round the barren Common strays,

Hard Exercise, and harder Fare

Soon make my Dame grow lank and spare:

Her Body light, she tries her Wings,

And scorns the Ground, and upward springs,

While all the Parish, as she flies,

Hear Sounds harmonious from the Skies.

Such is the Poet, fresh in Pay,

(The third Night's Profits of his Play;)

His Morning-Draughts 'till Noon can swill,

Among his Brethren of the Quill:

With good Roast Beef his Belly full,

Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull:

Deep sunk in Plenty, and Delight,

What Poet e'er could take his Flight?

Or stuff'd with Phlegm up to the Throat,

What Poet e'er could sing a Note?

Nor Pegasus could bear the Load,

Along the high celestial Road;

The Steed, oppress'd, would break his Girth,

To raise the Lumber from the Earth.

But, view him in another Scene,

When all his Drink is Hippocrene,

His Money spent, his Patrons fail,

His Credit out for Cheese and Ale;

His Two-Year's Coat so smooth and bare,

Through ev'ry Thread it lets in Air;

With hungry Meals his Body pin'd,

His Guts and Belly full of Wind;

And, like a Jockey for a Race,

His Flesh brought down to Flying-Case:

Now his exalted Spirit loaths

Incumbrances of Food and Cloaths;

And up he rises like a Vapour,

Supported high on Wings of Paper;

He singing flies, and flying sings,

While from below all Grub-street rings.

Jonathan Swift

Phillis, Or, the Progress of Love

DESPONDING Phillis was endu'd

With ev'ry Talent of a Prude,

She trembled when a Man drew near;

Salute her, and she turn'd her Ear:

If o'er against her you were plac't

She durst not look above your Wa[i]st;

She'd rather take you to her Bed

Than let you see her dress her Head;

In Church you heard her thro' the Crowd

Repeat the Absolution loud;

In Church, secure behind her Fan

She durst behold that Monster, Man:

There practic'd how to place her Head,

And bit her Lips to make them red:

Or on the Matt devoutly kneeling

Would lift her Eyes up to the Ceeling,

And heave her Bosom unaware

For neighb'ring Beaux to see it bare.

At length a lucky Lover came,

And found Admittance to the Dame.

Suppose all Partys now agreed,

The Writings drawn, the Lawyer fee'd,

The Vicar and the Ring bespoke:

Guess how could such a Match be broke.

See then what Mortals place their Bliss in!

Next morn betimes the Bride was missing,

The Mother scream'd, the Father chid,

Where can this idle Wench be hid?

No news of Phil. The Bridegroom came,

And thought his Bride had sculk't for shame,

Because her Father us'd to say

The Girl had such a Bashfull way.

Now John the Butler must be sent

To learn the Road that Phillis went;

The Groom was wisht to saddle Crop,

For John must neither light nor stop;

But find her where so'er she fled,

And bring her back, alive or dead.

See here again the Dev'l to do;

For truly John was missing too:

The Horse and Pillion both were gone

Phillis, it seems, was fled with John.

Old Madam who went up to find

What Papers Phil had left behind,

A Letter on the Toylet sees

To my much honor'd Father; These:

('Tis always done, Romances tell us,

When Daughters run away with Fellows)

Fill'd with the choicest common-places,

By others us'd in the like Cases.

That, long ago a Fortune-teller

Exactly said what now befell her,

And in a Glass had made her see

A serving-Man of low Degree:

It was her Fate; must be forgiven;

For Marriages were made in Heaven:

His Pardon begg'd, but to be plain,

She'd do't if 'twere to do again.

Thank God, 'twas neither Shame nor Sin,

For John was come of honest Kin:

Love never thinks of Rich and Poor,

She'd beg with John from Door to Door:

Forgive her, if it be a Crime,

She'll never do't another Time,

She ne'r before in all her Life

Once disobey'd him, Maid nor Wife.

One Argument she summ'd up all in,

The Thing was done and past recalling:

And therefore hop'd she should recover

His Favor, when his Passion's over.

She valued not what others thought her;

And was--His most obedient Daughter.

Fair Maidens all attend the Muse

Who now the wandring Pair pursues:

Away they rose in homely Sort

Their Journy long, their Money Short;

The loving Couple well bemir'd,

The Horse and both the Riders tir'd:

Their Vittells bad, their Lodging worse,

Phil cry'd, and John began to curse;

Phil wish't, that she had strained a Limb

When first she ventur'd out with him.

John wish't, that he had broke a Leg

When first for her he quitted Peg.

But what Adventures more befell 'em

The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em.

How Jonny wheadled, threatned, fawnd,

Till Phillis all her Trinkets pawn'd:

How oft she broke her marriage Vows

In kindness to maintain her Spouse;

Till Swains unwholsome spoyled the Trade,

For now the Surgeon must be paid;

To whom those Perquisites are gone

In Christian Justice due to John.

When Food and Rayment now grew scarce

Fate put a Period to the Farce;

And with exact Poetic Justice:

For John is Landlord, Phillis Hostess;

They keep at Stains the old blue Boar,

Are Cat and Dog, and Rogue and Whore.

Jonathan Swift

A Description of the Morning

NOW hardly here and there an hackney-coach

Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.

Now Betty from her master's bed has flown,

And softly stole to discompose her own.

The slipshod prentice from his master's door,

Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.

Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs,

Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs.

The youth with broomy stumps began to trace

The kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place.

The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,

'Til drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep,

Duns at his lordships gate began to meet,

And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street.

The turnkey now his flock returning sees,

Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:

The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands;

And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.

Jonathan Swift

A Satirical Elegy

On the Death of a Late FAMOUS GENERAL

HIS Grace! impossible! what dead!

Of old age, too, and in his bed!

And could that Mighty Warrior fall?

And so inglorious, after all!

Well, since he's gone, no matter how,

The last loud trump must wake him now:

And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,

He'd wish to sleep a little longer.

And could he be indeed so old

As by the news-papers we're told?

Threescore, I think, is pretty high;

'Twas time in conscience he should die.

This world he cumber'd long enough;

He burnt his candle to the snuff;

And that's the reason, some folks think,

He left behind so great a stink.

Behold his funeral appears,

Nor widow's sighs, nor orphan's tears,

Wont at such times each heart to pierce,

Attend the progress of his hearse.

But what of that, his friends may say,

He had those honours in his day.

True to his profit and his pride,

He made them weep before he dy'd.

Come hither, all ye empty things,

Ye bubbles rais'd by breath of Kings;

Who float upon the tide of state,

Come hither, and behold your fate.

Let pride be taught by this rebuke,

How very mean a thing's a Duke;

From all his ill-got honours flung,

Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung.

Jonathan Swift

On Stella's Birth-day 1719

STELLA this Day is thirty four,

(We shan't dispute a Year or more)

However Stella, be not troubled,

Although thy Size and Years are doubled,

Since first I saw Thee at Sixteen

The brightest Virgin on the Green,

So little is thy Form declin'd

Made up so largely in thy Mind.

Oh, woud it please the Gods to split

Thy Beauty, Size, and Years, and Wit,

No Age could furnish out a Pair

Of Nymphs so graceful, Wise and fair

With half the Lustre of your Eyes,

With half your Wit, your Years and Size:

And then before it grew too late,

How should I beg of gentle Fate,

(That either Nymph might have her Swain,)

To split my Worship too in twain.

Jonathan Swift