OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Fable of the Bitches

THE FABLE OF THE BITCHES.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1715.
ON AN ATTEMPT TO REPEAL THE TEST ACT.
A BITCH that was full pregnant grown, By all the dogs and curs in town, Finding her ripen'd time was come, Her litter teeming from her womb, Went here and there, and every where, To find an easy place to lay-her. At length to Musick's house she came, And begg'd like one both blind and lame; "My only friend, my dear," said she, "You see 'tis mere necessity, Hath sent me to your house to whelp: I die if you refuse your help." With fawning whine, and rueful tone, With artful sigh and feigned groan, ​With couchant cringe, and flattering tale, Smooth Bawty did so far prevail, That Musick gave her leave to litter; (But mark what follow'd — faith! she bit her) Whole baskets full of bits and scraps, And broth enough to fill her paps; For, well she knew, her numerous brood, For want of milk, would suck her blood. But when she thought her pains were done, And now 'twas high time to be gone; In civil terms, — "My friend," said she, "My house you've had on courtesy; And now I earnestly desire, That you would with your cubs retire; For, should you stay but one week longer, I shall be starved with cold and hunger." The guest reply'd — "My friend, your leave I must a little longer crave; Stay till my tender cubs can find Their way — for now, you see, they're blind; But, when we've gathered strength, I swear, We'll to our barn again repair." The time pass'd on; and Musick came, Her kennel once again to claim; But Bawty, lost to shame and honour, Set all her cubs at once upon her; Made her retire, and quit her right, And loudly cry'd — "A bite! a bite!"
THE MORAL.
Thus did the Grecian wooden horse Conceal a fatal armed force: No sooner brought within the walls, But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.
* ↑ The Church of England.
* ↑ A Scotch name for a bitch; alluding to the kirk.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Faggot

THE FAGGOT.
Written when the Ministry were at Variance. 1713.
OBSERVE the dying father speak: Try, lads, can you this bundle break? Then bids the youngest of the six Take up a well-bound heap of sticks. They thought it was an old man's maggot; And strove by turns to break the faggot: In vain; the complicated wands Were much too strong for all their hands. See, said the sire, how soon 'tis done: Then took and broke them one by one. So strong you'll be, in friendship tied; So quickly broke, if you divide. Keep close then, boys, and never quarrel: Here ends the fable, and the moral. ​This Tale may be apply'd in few words To treasurers, comptrollers, stewards; And others, who in solemn sort, Appear with slender wands at court; Not firmly join'd to keep their ground, But lashing one another round: While wise men think they ought to fight With quarterstaffs instead of white; Or constable with staff of peace, Should come and make the clattering cease; Which now disturbs the queen and court, And gives the whigs and rabble sport. In history we never found; The consul's fasces were unbound: Those Romans were too wise to think on 't, Except to lash some grand delinquent. How would they blush to hear it said, The prætor broke the consul's head! Or consul, in his purple gown, Came up, and knock'd'the prætor down! Come, courtiers: every man his stick! Lord treasurer, for once be quick: And that they may the closer cling, Take your blue ribbon for a string. Come, trimming Harcourt, bring your mace; And squeeze it in, or quit your place: Dispatch, or else that rascal Northey Will undertake to do it for thee: And be assur'd, the court will find him Prepar'd to leap o'er sticks, or bind them. To make the bundle strong and safe, Great Ormond, lend thy general's staff: ​And, if the crosier could be cramm'd in, A fig for Lechmere, King, and Hambden! You'll then defy the strongest whig With both his hands to bend a twig; Though with united strength they all pull, From Somers, down to Craggs and Walpole.
* ↑ Lord chancellor.
* ↑ Sir Edward Northey, attorney general.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Fable of Midas

THE FABLE OF MIDAS. 1711.
MIDAS, we are in story told, Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold: He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round Glitter'd like spangles on the ground: A codling, ere it went his lip in, Would straight become a golden pippin: He call'd for drink; you saw him sup Potable gold in golden cup: His empty paunch that he might fill, He suck'd his victuals through a quill: Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders, Or 't had been happy for gold-finders: He cock'd his hat, you would have said Mambrino's helm adorn'd his head: Whene'er he chanc'd his hands to lay On magazines of corn or hay, Gold ready coin'd appeared, instead Of paltry provender and bread; Hence by wise farmers we are told, Old hay is equal to old gold; And hence a critick deep maintains, We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains. This fool had got a lucky hit; And people fancy'd he had wit. Two gods their skill in musick try'd, And both chose Midas to decide; He against Phœbus' harp decreed, And gave it for Pan's oaten reed: The god of wit, to show his grudge, Clapt asses' ears upon the judge; ​A goodly pair, erect and wide, Which he could neither gild nor hide. And now the virtue of his hands Was lost among Pactolus' sands, Against whose torrent while he swims, The golden scurf peels off his limbs: Fame spreads the news, and people travel From far to gather golden gravel; Midas, expos'd to all their jeers, Had lost his art, and kept his ears. This tale inclines the gentle reader To think upon a certain leader; To whom from Midas down, descends That virtue in the finger's ends. What else by perquisites are meant, By pensions, bribes, and three per cent? By places and commissions sold, And turning dung itself to gold? By starving in the midst of store, As t'other Midas did before? None e'er did modern Midas choose, Subject or patron of his Muse, But found him thus their merit scan, That Phœbus must give place to Pan: He values not the poet's praise, Nor will exchange his plums for bays. To Pan alone rich misers call; And there's the jest, for Pan is all. Here English wits will be to seek, Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek. Besides, it plainly now appears Our Midas too has asses' ears; Where every fool his mouth applies, And whispers in a thousand lies; ​Such gross delusions could not pass Through any ears but of an ass. But gold defiles with frequent touch; There's nothing fouls the hand so much: And scholars give it for the cause Of British Midas' dirty paws; Which, while the senate strove to scour, They wash'd away the chemick power. While he his utmost strength apply'd, To swim against this popular tide, The golden spoils flew off apace, Here fell a pension, there a place: The torrent merciless imbibes Commissions, perquisites, and bribes; By their own weight sunk to the bottom; Much good may do them that have caught 'em! And Midas now neglected stands, With asses' ears, and dirty hands.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Five Ladies Answer

This poem is a response to the previous poem, On the Five Ladies at Sot's-hole, and leads to the next poem, The Beau's Reply.
THE FIVE LADIES ANSWER TO THE BEAU.
BY DR. SHERIDAN.
WITH THE WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD.
YOU little scribbling beau, What demon made you write? Because to write you know As much as you can fight.
For compliment so scurvy, I wish we had you here; We'd turn you topsyturvy Into a mug of beer.
You thought to make a farce on The man and place we chose; We're sure a single parson Is worth a hundred beaux.
And you would make us vassals, Good Mr. Wig and Wings, To silver clocks and tassels; You would, you Thing of Things!
Because around your cane A ring of diamonds is set; And you, in some by-lane, Have gain'd a paltry grisette:
Shall we, of sense refin'd, Your trifling nonsense bear, As noisy as the wind, As empty as the air? ​We hate your empty prattle; And vow and swear 'tis true, There's more in one child's rattle. Than twenty fops like you.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Furniture of a Woman's Mind

THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN'S MIND. 1727.
A Set of phrases learn'd 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; Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, And take his nonsense all for wit; Her learning mounts to read a song, But half the words pronouncing wrong; Has every repartee in store She spoke ten thousand times before; ​Can ready compliments supply On all occasions, cut and dry; Such hatred to a parson's gown, The sight will put her in a swoon; For conversation well endued, She calls it witty to be rude; And, placing raillery in railing, Will tell aloud your greatest failing; Nor make a scruple to expose Your bandy leg, or crooked nose; Can at her morning tea run o'er The scandal of the day before; Improving hourly in her skill, To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. In choosing lace, a critick nice, Knows to a groat the lowest price; Can in her female clubs dispute, What linen best the silk will suit, What colours each complexion match, And where with art to place a patch. If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, Can finely counterfeit a fright; So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, She ravishes all hearts to hear her. Can dextrously her husband tease, By taking fits whene'er she please; By frequent practice learns the trick At proper seasons to be sick; Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, At once creating love and pity; If Molly happens to be careless, And but neglects to warm her hairlace, She gets a cold as sure as death, And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; ​Admires how modest women can Be so robustious, like a man. In party, furious to her power; A bitter whig, or tory sour; Her arguments directly tend Against the side she would defend; Will prove herself a tory plain, From principles the whigs maintain; And, to defend the whiggish cause, Her topicks from the tories draws. O yes! if any man can find More virtues in a woman's mind, Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding; She'll pay the charges to a farthing; Take notice, she has my commission To add them in the next edition; They may outsell a better thing: So, halloo, boys; God save the king!
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Problem

THE PROBLEM.
"THAT MY LORD BERKELEY STINKS, WHEN HE IS IN LOVE."
DID ever problem thus perplex, Or more employ the female sex? So sweet a passion, who would think, Jove ever form'd to make a stink? The ladies vow and swear, they'll try, Whether it be a truth or lie. Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat, Works in my lord by stool and sweat, Which brings a stink from every pore, And from behind and from before; Yet, what is wonderful to tell it, None but the favourite nymph can smell it. ​But now, to solve the natural cause By sober philosophick laws: Whether all passions, when in ferment, Work out as anger does in vermin; So, when a weasel you torment, You find his passion by his scent. We read of kings, who, in a fright, Though on a throne, would fall to sh—. Beside all this, deep scholars know, That the main string of Cupid's bow, Once on a time was an a— gut; Now to a nobler office put, By favour or desert preferr'd From giving passage to a t—; But still, though fix'd among the stars Does sympathize with human a—. Thus, when you feel a hardbound breech, Conclude love's bowstring at full stretch, Till the kind looseness comes, and then Conclude the bow relax'd again. And now, the ladles all are bent To try the great experiment, Ambitious of a regent's heart, Spread all their charms to catch a f—; Watching the first unsavoury wind, Some ply before, and some behind. My lord, on fire amid the dames, F—ts like a laurel in the flames. The fair approach the speaking part, To try the back-way to his heart. For, as when we a gun discharge, Although the bore be ne'er so large, Before the flame from muzzle burst, Just at the breech it flashes first: ​So from my lord his passion broke, He f—d first, and then he spoke. The ladies, vanish in the smother, To confer notes with one another; And now they all agreed to name Whom each one thought the happy dame. Quoth Neal, whate'er the rest may think, I'm sure 'twas I, that smelt the stink. You smell the stink! by G—d, you lye, Quoth Ross, for I'll be sworn 'twas I. Ladies, quoth Levens, pray, forbear: Let's not fall out; we all had share. And, by the most I can discover, My lord's a universal lover.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The History of Vanbrugh's House

THE HISTORY OF
VANBRUGH'S HOUSE. 1708.
WHEN mother Clud had rose from play, And call'd to take the cards away, Van saw, but seem'd not to regard, How Miss pick'd every painted card, And busy both with hand and eye, Soon rear'd a house two stories high. Van's genius, without thought or lecture, Is hugely turn'd to architecture: He view'd the edifice, and smil'd, Vow'd it was pretty for a child: It was so perfect in its kind, He kept the model in his mind. But, when he found the boys at play, And saw them dabbling in their clay, He stood behind a stall to lurk, And mark the progress of their work; With true delight observ'd them all Raking up mud to build a wall. The plan he much admir'd, and took The model in his tablebook: Thought himself now exactly skill'd, And so resolv'd a house to build; ​A real house, with rooms, and stairs, Five times at least as big as theirs; Taller than Miss's by two yards; Not a sham thing of clay or cards: And so he did; for, in a while, He built up such a monstrous pile, That no two chairmen could be found Able to lift it from the ground. Still at Whitehall it stands in view, Just in the place where first it grew: There all the little schoolboys run, Envying to see themselves outdone. From such deep rudiments as these, Van is become, by due degrees, For building fam'd, and justly reckon'd, At court, Vitruvius the second: No wonder, since wise authors show, That best foundations must be low; And now the duke has wisely ta'en him To be his architect at Blenheim. But, raillery at once apart, If this rule holds in every art; Or if his grace were no more skill'd in The art of battering walls than building, We might expect to see next year, A mouse-trap-man chief engineer!
# The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/The Grave of Keats

Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain,  He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue:  Taken from life when life and love were new The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,
Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.  No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,  But gentle violets weeping with the dew Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain. O proudest heart that broke for misery!  O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!  O poet-painter of our English Land! Thy name was writ in water——it shall stand:  And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,  As Isabella did her Basil-tree.
# The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/The New Remorse

THE sin was mine; I did not understand. So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand. And in the withered hollow of this land Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave, That hardly can the leaden willow crave One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore? (Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this Who cometh in dyed garments from the South? It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss The yet unravished roses of thy mouth, I shall weep and worship, as before.
# The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/The True Knowledge

Thou knowest all; I seek in vain
What lands to till or sow with seed - The land is black with briar and weed, Nor cares for falling tears or rain.
Thou knowest all; I sit and wait With blinded eyes and hands that fail, Till the last lifting of the veil And the first opening of the gate.
Thou knowest all; I cannot see. I trust I shall not live in vain, I know that we shall meet again In some divine eternity.
# The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/The Harlot's House

We caught the tread of dancing feet, We loitered down the moonlit street, And stopped beneath the harlot's house.
Inside, above the din and fray, We heard the loud musicians play The Treues Liebes Herz of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques, Making fantastic arabesques, The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin, To sound of horn and violin, Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons, Slim silhouetted skeletons Went sidling through the slow quadrille.
Then took each other by the hand, And danced a stately saraband; Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed A phantom lover to her breast, Sometimes they seemed to try and sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette Came out and smoked its cigarette Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then turning to my love I said, The dead are dancing with the dead, The dust is whirling with the dust.
But she---she heard the violin, And left my side, and entered in: Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false, The dancers wearied of the waltz, The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street, The dawn with silver-sandalled feet, Crept like a frightened girl.
# The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/Theoretikos

This mighty empire hath but feet of clay:
    Of all its ancient chivalry and might
    Our little island is forsake quite:
Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay, And from its hills that voice hath passed away
    Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,
    Come out of it my Soul, thou art not fit
For this vile traffic-house, where day by day
    Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,
    And the rude people rage with ignorant cries
Against an heritage of centuries.
    It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art
    And loftiest culture I would stand apart,
Neither for God, nor for his enemies.
# The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/The Grave of Shelley

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone; Here doth the little night-owl make her throne, And the slight lizard show his jewelled head. And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red, In the still chamber of yon pyramid Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid, Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.
Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep, But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb In the blue cavern of an echoing deep, Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.
(Rome)
# The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/Theocritus: A Villanelle

O singer of Persephone! In the dim meadows desolate Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still through the ivy flits the bee Where Amaryllis lies in state; O Singer of Persephone!
Simatha calls on Hecate And hears the wild dogs at the gate; Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still by the light and laughing sea Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate: O Singer of Persephone!
And still in boyish rivalry Young Daphnis challenges his mate: Dost thou remember Sicily?
Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, For thee the jocund shepherds wait; O Singer of Persephone! Dost thou remember Sicily?
# The Zoologist/3rd series, vol 1 (1877)/Issue 3

Contents :
| | | PAGE |
| L.H. Jeitteles | On the Geographical Distribution of the Fallow Deer Past and Present (translation: Ullmann, P.D. and Harting, J.E.) | 81 |
| Dawkins, W. Boyd | On the Northern Range of the Fallow Deer in Europe | 89 |
| Stevenson, Henry | Ornithological notes from Norfolk | 95 |
| | Occasional Notes | 100 |
| | Proceedings of Scientific Societies | 109 |
| | Notices of New Books | 116 |
# The Zoologist/3rd series, vol 1 (1877)/Issue 4

Contents :
| | | PAGE |
| Adams, A. Leith | Ancient and Extinct British Quadrupeds | 121 |
| [Mahony, James A.] | The Natural History of Donegal | 149 |
| Boyes, Frederick | Ornithological notes from Beverley | 153 |
| Kerr, W.J. | Ornithological notes from St. Andrews, N.B., during the Autumn and Winter of 1876 | 159 |
| Gatcombe, John | Ornithological notes from Devon | 162 |
| Bidwell, Edward | Observations on Egg-blowing | 164 |
| Harting, J.E.F. (ed.) | Wild Fowl Preservation | 167 |
| | Occasional Notes | 172 |
| | Proceedings of Scientific Societies | 184 |
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/O Muerte! que sueles ser

VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO.
O Muerte! que sueles ser.
THOU, the stern monarch of dismay,  Whom nature trembles to survey,  Oh Death! to me, the child of grief,  Thy welcome power would bring relief, Changing to peaceful slumber many a care.  And though thy stroke may thrill with pain  Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein;  The pangs that bid existence close,  Ah! sure are far less keen than those, Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/Morning Song

GESNER.
MORNING SONG.
Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn.
HAIL! morning sun, thus early bright; Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day! Through the dark woods that fringe the height  Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray.
Bright on the dew, it sparkles clear, Bright on the water's glittering fall, And life, and joy, and health appear,  Sweet morning! at thy call.
Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring From beds of fragrance, where they lay, And roving wild on dewy wing,  Drive slumber far away.
Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat, Now from each mind withdraw their spell, While the young loves delighted meet,  On Rosa's cheek to dwell.
Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower, Its fragrant spirit make thine own; Then wing thy way to Rosa's bower,  Ere her light sleep is flown.
There, o'er her downy pillow, fly, Wake the sweet maid to life and day; Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh,  And o'er her bosom play;
And whisper, when her eyes unveil, That I, since morning's earliest call, Have sighed her name to every gale,  By the lone waterfall.
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa

TORQUATO TASSO.
Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa.
THOU in thy morn wert like a glowing rose, To the mild sunshine only half displayed, That shunned its bashful graces to disclose, And in its veil of verdure sought a shade;
Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, (Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so bright,) Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere,
O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light;
Now riper years have doomed no grace to fade, Nor youthful charms, in all their pride arrayed, Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, And the bright daystar, in its noontide hour, More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm.
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/Mi nueve y dulce querella

CAMOENS.
Mi nueve y dulce querella.
NO searching eye can pierce the veil That o'er my secret love is thrown; No outward signs reveal its tale,  But to my bosom known. Thus, like the spark, whose vivid light In the dark flint is hid from sight,  It dwells within, alone.
# Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets, with Original Poetry/No baxes temeroso, o peregrino

FRANCISCO MANUEL.
ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT.
No baxes temeroso, o peregrino.
PAUSE not with lingering foot, O pilgrim, here; Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side; Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear, To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide.
Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, So near the mansions of supreme delight; Pause not—but tread this consecrated road, 'Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height.
Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, How many a fountain glitters down the hill! Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, Bright sunshine guides—and wilt thou linger still? Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife, Hope is reality, and time is life.