Yet malice never was his aim;
he lashed the vice but spared the name.
No individual could resent,
where thousands equally were meant.
His satire points at no defect
but what all mortals may correct;
for he abhorred that senseless tribe
who call it humor when they gibe.
'Tis an old maxim in the schools,
That flattery's the food of fools;
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condescend to take a bit.
Then gave him some familiar thumps,
a college joke to cure the dumps.
So weak thou art, that fools thy power despise;
And yet so strong, thou triumph'st o'er the wise.
To Love, found in Miss Vanhomrigh's desk after her death, in Swift's handwriting
A set of phrases learnt by rote;
A passion for a scarlet coat;
When at a play to laugh, or cry,
Yet cannot tell the reason why:
Never to hold her tongue a minute;
While all she prates has nothing in it.
Conversation is but carving!
Give no more to every guest
Than he's able to digest.
Give him always of the prime,
And but little at a time.
Carve to all but just enough,
Let them neither starve nor stuff,
And that you may have your due,
Let your neighbor carve for you.
Those dreams that on the silent night intrude,
And with false flitting shapes our minds delude
are mere productions of the brain.
And fools consult interpreters in vain.
Under an oak, in stormy weather,
I joined this rogue and whore together;
And none but he who rules the thunder
Can put this rogue and whore asunder.
For conversation well endued;
She calls it witty to be rude;
And, placing raillery in railing,
Will tell aloud your greatest failing.
I've often wish'd that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a year;
a handsome house to lodge a friend;
a river at my garden's end;
a terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land set out to plant a wood.