# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/Death and Daphne

DEATH AND DAPHNE.
TO AN AGREEABLE YOUNG LADY, BUT EXTREMELY LEAN. 1730.
DEATH went upon a solemn day At Pluto's hall his court to pay: The phantom, having humbly kist His grisly monarch's sooty fist, ​Presented him the weekly bills Of doctors, fevers, plagues, and pills. Pluto, observing since the peace The burial article decrease, And, vex'd to see affairs miscarry, Declar'd in council, Death must marry; Vow'd he no longer could support Old bachelors about his court; The interest of his realm had need That Death should get a numerous breed; Young Deathlings, who, by practice made Proficient in their father's trade, With colonies might stock around His large dominions under ground. A consult of coquettes below Was call'd, to rig him out a beau: From her own head Megera takes A periwig of twisted snakes; Which in the nicest fashion curl'd, (Like toupets of this upper world) With flowers of sulphur powder'd well, That graceful on his shoulders fell; An adder of the sable kind In line direct hung down behind; The owl, the raven, and the bat, Clubb'd for a feather to his hat; His coat, a usurer's velvet pall, Bequeath'd to Pluto, corpse and all. But, loth his person to expose Bare, like a carcase pick'd by crows, A lawyer o'er his hands and face Stuck artfully a parchment case. No new flux'd rake show'd fairer skin; Nor Phyllis after lying in. ​With snuff was fill'd his ebon box, Of shin-bones rotted by the pox. Nine spirits of blaspheming fops, With aconite anoint his chops; And give him words of dreadful sounds, G—d d—n his blood! and b—d and w—ds! Thus furnish'd out, he sent his train To take a house in Warwick lane: The faculty, his humble friends, A complimental message sends: Their president in scarlet gown Harangued, and welcom'd him to town. But Death had business to dispatch; His mind was running on his match. And, hearing much of Daphne's fame, His majesty of terrours came, Fine as a colonel of the guards, To visit where she sate at cards: She, as he came into the room, Thought him Adonis in his bloom. And now her heart with pleasure jumps; She scarce remembers what is trumps; For such a shape of skin and bone Was never seen, except her own: Charm'd with his eyes, and chin, and snout, Her pocket glass drew slily out; And grew enamour'd with her phiz, As just the counterpart of his. She darted many a private glance, And freely made the first advance; Was of her beauty grown so vain, She doubted not to win the swain. Nothing she thought could sooner gain him, Than with her wit to entertain him. ​She ask'd about her friends below; This meagre fop, that batter'd beau: Whether some late departed toasts Had got gallants among the ghosts? If Chloe were a sharper still As great as ever at quadrille? (The ladies there must needs be rooks, For cards, we know, are Pluto's books) If Florimel had found her love, For whom she hang'd herself above? How oft a week was kept a ball By Proserpine at Pluto's hall? She fancied these Elysian shades The sweetest place for masquerades: How pleasant on the banks of Styx, To troll it in a coach and six! What pride a female heart inflames! How endless are ambition's aims! Cease, haughty nymph; the Fates decree Death must not be a spouse for thee: For, when by chance the meagre shade Upon thy hand his finger laid, Thy hand as dry and cold as lead, His matrimonial spirit fled; He felt about his heart a damp, That quite extinguish'd Cupid's lamp: Away the frighted spectre scuds, And leaves my lady in the suds.