On A Very Old Glass At Market-Hill
Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I;
Though none can tell which of us first shall die.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Answered Extempore By Dr. Swift
We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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On Time
Ever eating, never cloying,
All-devouring, all-destroying,
Never finding full repast,
Till I eat the world at last.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Lines Written Extempore On Mr. Harley’s Being Stabbed, And Addressed To His Physician, 1710-11
On Britain Europe's safety lies,
Britain is lost if Harley dies:
Harley depends upon your skill:
Think what you save, or what you kill.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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A Riddle
I'm wealthy and poor,
I'm empty and full,
I'm humble and proud,
I'm witty and dull.
I'm foul and yet fair:
I'm old, and yet young;
I lie with Moll Kerr,
And toast Mrs. Long.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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On 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.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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On A Pair Of Dice
We are little brethren twain,
Arbiters of loss and gain,
Many to our counters run,
Some are made, and some undone:
But men find it to their cost,
Few are made, but numbers lost.
Though we play them tricks for ever,
Yet they always hope our favour.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Epitaph In Berkeley Church-Yard, Gloucestershire
Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool,
Men call'd him Dicky Pearce;
His folly served to make folks laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.
Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
What signifies to cry?
Dickies enough are still behind,
To laugh at by and by.
Buried, June 18, 1728, aged 63.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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On A Circle
I'm up and down, and round about,
Yet all the world can't find me out;
Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure,
They never yet could find my measure.
I'm found almost in every garden,
Nay, in the compass of a farthing.
There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill,
Can move an inch except I will.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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On Himself
ON RAINY days alone I dine
Upon a chick and pint of wine.
On rainy days I dine alone
And pick my chicken to the bone;
But this my servants much enrages,
No scraps remain to save board-wages.
In weather fine I nothing spend,
But often spunge upon a friend;
Yet, where he’s not so rich as I,
I pay my club, and so good-bye.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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