The Works of Dr. Jonathan Swift, Dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin, Volume 7

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W. Bowyer, C. Bathurst, W. Owen, W. Strahan, J. Rivington, J. Hinton, L. Davis, and C. Reymers, R. Baldwin, J. Dodsley, S. Crowder and Company and B. Collins., 1768
 

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Page 71 - But, that which wonderful appears, I speak to eyes, and not to ears. He oft...
Page 277 - Let them rave at making laws ; While they never hold their tongue, Let them dabble in their dung : Let them form a grand committee, How to plague and starve the city ; Let them...
Page 419 - 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.
Page 261 - So geographers, in Afric maps, With savage pictures fill their gaps, And o'er unhabitable downs Place elephants for want of towns.
Page 92 - That lies in old wood like a hare in her form ; With teeth or with claws it will bite or will scratch, And chambermaids christen this worm a deathwatch ; Because like a watch it always cries click ; Then woe be to those in the house who are sick : For, as sure as a gun, they will give up the ghost, If the maggot cries click when it scratches the post.
Page 260 - Depend upon't their judgment's right. But if you blab, you are undone : Consider what a risk you run : You lose your credit all at once ; The town will mark you for a dunce ; The vilest doggrel, Grub-street sends, Will pass for yours with foes and friends ; And you must bear the whole disgrace, Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.
Page 178 - Hence the mean and sordid soul, Like his body, rank and foul; Hence that wild suspicious peep, Like a rogue that steals a sheep...
Page 146 - But, madam, I beg you contrive and invent, And worry him out, till he gives his consent. Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think, An I were to be hang'd, I can't sleep a wink : For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain.
Page 361 - The Ass approaching next, confess'd, That in his heart he loved a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not...
Page 256 - Hath blasted with poetic fire. What hope of custom in the fair, While not a soul demands your ware? Where you have nothing to produce For private life, or public use? Court, city, country want you not; You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.

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