OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Song (5)

SONG
If you refuse me once and think again,
I will complain.
You are deceiv'd, love is no work of art;
It must be got and born,
Not made and worn,5 By every one that hath a heart.
Or do you think they more than once can die,
Whom you deny;
Who tell you of a thousand deaths a day,
Like the old poets feign10 And tell the pain
They met, but in the common way?
Or do you think 't too soon to yield,
And quit the field?
Nor is that right; they yield that first entreat:15 Once one may crave for love,
But more would prove
This heart too little, that too great.
O that I were all soul, that I might prove
For you as fit a love20 As you are for an angel; for, I know,
None but pure spirits are fit loves for you.
You are all ethereal; there's in you no dross,
Nor any part that's gross.
Your coarsest part is like a curious lawn,25 The vestal relics for a covering drawn.
Your other parts, part of the purest fire
That e'er Heaven did inspire,
Makes every thought that is refined by it,
A quintessence of goodness and of wit.30
Thus have your raptures reach'd to that degree
In Love's philosophy,
That you can figure to yourself a fire
Void of all heat, a love without desire.
Nor in Divinity do you go less:35 You think, and you profess,
That souls may have a plenitude of joy,
Although their bodies meet not to employ.
But I must needs confess, I do not find
The motions of my mind40 So purified as yet, but at the best
My body claims in them an interest.
I hold that perfect joy makes all our parts
As joyful as our hearts.
Our senses tell us, if we please not them,45 Our love is but a dotage or a dream.
How shall we then agree? you may descend,
But will not, to my end.
I fain would tune my fancy to your key,
But cannot reach to that obstructed way.50
There rests but this, that, whilst we sorrow here,
Our bodies may draw near:
And, when no more their joys they can extend,
Then let our souls begin where they did end.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/The Careless Lover

THE CARELESS LOVER
1
Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove;
And yet in faith I lie, I do,
And she's extremely handsome too:
She's fair, she's wondrous fair,5 But I care not who know it,
Ere I'll die for love, I'll fairly forego it.
2
My foolish heart could never bear:
One sigh imprison'd ruins more10 Than earthquakes have done heretofore:
She's fair, etc.
3
And cut no fingers 'stead of meat;
Nor with much gazing on her face15 Do e'er rise hungry from the place:
She's fair, etc.
4
To this and t' other friend I drink;
And when 'tis nam'd another's health,20 I never make it hers by stealth:
She's fair, etc.
5
Is even as much as is the fall
Of fountains on a pathless grove,25 And nourishes as much my love:
She's fair, etc.
6
And for a need laugh out a day:
Who does not thus in Cupid's school,30 He makes not love, but plays the fool:
She's fair, etc.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Song (3)

SONG
I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine:
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?
Yet now I think on't, let it lie:5 To find it were in vain,
For th' hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?10 O love, where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?
But love is such a mystery,
I cannot find it out:
For when I think I'm best resolv'd,15 I then am in most doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine:
For I'll believe I have her heart
As much as she hath mine.20
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Sonnets

SONNETS
I
1
That piece of beauty passes?
There was a time when I did vow
To that alone;
But mark the fate of faces;5 The red and white works now no more on me
Than if it could not charm, or I not see.
2
And I have still desires,
Am still the selfsame flesh and blood,10 As apt to melt
And suffer from those fires;
O! some kind power unriddle where it lies,
Whether my heart be faulty, or her eyes?
3
And I as often die;
Neither her power, then, nor my will
Can questioned be,
What is the mystery?
Sure Beauty's empires, like to greater states,20 Have certain periods set, and hidden fates.
II
1
To make up my delight;
No odd becoming graces,
Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store5 Of love for her I court:
I ask no more,
'Tis love in love that makes the sport.
2
It is mere cosenage all;10 For though some long ago
Lik'd certain colours mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from choosing new:
If I a fancy take
To black and blue,15 That fancy doth it beauty make.
3
Makes eating a delight,
And if I like one dish
More than another, that a pheasant is;20 What in our watches, that in us is found;
So to the height and nick
We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.
III
1
Some kind unbodied post
Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know,
Whether the nobler chaplets wear,5 Those that their mistress' scorn did bear,
Or those that were us'd kindly.
2
To make those sufferings dear,
'Twill there I fear be found,10 That to the being crown'd
T' have loved alone will not suffice,
Unless we also have been wise,
And have our loves enjoy'd.
3
That here unlov'd again
Departs, and 's thither gone
Where each sits by his own?
Or how can that elysium be,
Where I my mistress still must see20 Circled in others' arms?
4
And Sophonisba must
Be his whom she held dear,
Not his who lov'd her here:25 The sweet Philoclea, since she died,
Lies by her Pirocles his side,
Not by Amphialus.
5
For difference crowns the brow30 Of those kind souls that were
The noble martyrs here;
And if that be the only odds
(As who can tell?) ye kinder gods,
Give me the woman here.35
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/The Deformed Mistress

THE DEFORMED MISTRESS
I know there are some fools that care
Not for the body, so the face be fair;
Some others, too, that in a female creature
Respect not beauty, but a comely feature;
And others, too, that for those parts in sight5 Care not so much, so that the rest be right.
Each man his humour hath, and, faith, 'tis mine
To love that woman which I now define.
First I would have her wainscot foot and hand
More wrinkled far than any pleated band,10 That in those furrows, if I'd take the pains,
I might both sow and reap all sorts of grains:
Her nose I'd have a foot long, not above,
With pimples embroider'd, for those I love;
And at the end a comely pearl of snot,15 Considering whether it should fall or not:
Provided, next, that half her teeth be out,
Nor do I care much if her pretty snout
Meet with her furrow'd chin, and both together
Hem in her lips, as dry as good whit-leather:20 One wall-eye she shall have, for that's a sign
In other beasts the best: why not in mine?
Her neck I'll have to be pure jet at least,
With yellow spots enamell'd; and her breast,
Like a grasshopper's wing, both thin and lean,25 Not to be toucht for dirt, unless swept clean:
As for her belly, 'tis no matter, so
There be a belly, and—— Yet, if you will, let it be something high,
And always let there be a timpany.30 But soft! where am I now? here I should stride,
Lest I fall in, the place must be so wide,
And pass unto her thighs, which shall be just
Like to an ant's that's scraping in the dust:
Into her legs I'd have love's issues fall,35 And all her calf into a gouty small:
Her feet both thick and eagle-like display'd,
The symptoms of a comely, handsome maid.
As for her parts behind, I ask no more:
If they but answer those that are before,40 I have my utmost wish; and, having so,
Judge whether I am happy, yea or no.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/The Expostulation

THE EXPOSTULATION
Tell me, ye juster deities, That pity lovers' miseries, Why should my own unworthiness Fright me to seek my happiness? It is as natural as just5 Him for to love, whom needs I must: All men confess that love's a fire; Then who denies it to aspire?
Tell me, if thou wert fortune's thrall, Would'st thou not raise thee from the fall,10 Seek only to o'erlook thy state Whereto thou art condemn'd by fate? Then let me love my Coridon, And, by love's leave, him love alone: For I have read of stories oft,15 That love hath wings and soars aloft.
Then let me grow in my desire, Though I be martyr'd in that fire; For grace it is enough for me, But only to love such as he:20 For never shall my thoughts be base, Though luckless, yet without disgrace: Then let him that my love shall blame Or clip love's wings, or quench love's flame.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Song (4)

SONG
The crafty boy that had full oft assay'd
To pierce my stubborn and resisting breast,
But still the bluntness of his darts betray'd,
Resolv'd at last of setting up his rest,
Either my wild unruly heart to tame,5 Or quit his godhead, and his bow disclaim.
So all his lovely looks, his pleasing fires;
All his sweet motions, all his taking smiles;
All that awakes, all that inflames desires,
All that sweetly commands, all that beguiles,10 He does into one pair of eyes convey,
And there begs leave that he himself may stay.
And there he brings me, where his ambush lay,
Secure and careless, to a stranger land;
And, never warning me, which was foul play,15 Does make me close by all this beauty stand:
Where, first struck dead, I did at last recover,
To know that I might only live to love her.
So I'll be sworn I do, and do confess
The blind lad's power, whilst he inhabits there;20 But I'll be even with him, ne'ertheless,
If e'er I chance to meet with him elsewhere.
If other eyes invite the boy to tarry,
I'll fly to hers as to a sanctuary.
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Song (6)

SONG
When, dearest, I but think of thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be
Are present, and my soul delighted:
For beauties that from worth arise
Are like the grace of deities,5 Still present with us, though unsighted.
Thus whilst I sit, and sigh the day
With all his borrowed lights away,
Till night's black wings do overtake me,
Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,10 As sudden lights do sleeping men,
So they, by their bright rays awake me.
Thus absence dies, and dying proves
No absence can subsist with loves
That do partake of fair perfection;15 Since in the darkest night they may
By love's quick motion find a way
To see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood20 Far from the main up in the river: O, think not then but love can do As much; for that's an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!
# The Works of Sir John Suckling in prose and verse/Song (7)

SONG
Unjust decrees, that do at once exact From such a love as worthy hearts should own So wild a passion, And yet so tame a presence As, holding no proportion,5 Changes into impossible obedience.
Let it suffice, that neither I do love
In such a calm observance as to weigh
Each word I say,
And each examin'd look t' approve10 That towards her doth move,
Without so much of fire
As might in time kindle into desire.
Or give me leave to burst into a flame,
And at the scope of my unbounded will15 Love her my fill—
No superscriptions of fame,
Of honour, or good name;
No thought, but to improve
The gentle and quick approaches of my love.20
But thus to throng, and overlade a soul
With love, and then to leave a room for fear
That shall all that control,
What is it but to rear
Our passions and our hopes on high,25 That thence they may descry
The noblest way how to despair and die?
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 10/Character of Primate Marsh

CHARACTER
OF
PRIMATE MARSH.
MARSH has the reputation of most profound and universal learning; this is the general opinion, neither can it be easily disproved. An old rusty iron chest in a banker's shop, strongly locked, and wonderful heavy, is full of gold; this is the general opinion, neither can it be disproved, provided the key be lost, and what is in it be wedged so close that it will not by any motion discover the metal by the chinking. Doing good is his pleasure: and as no man consults another in his pleasures, neither does he in this; by his awkwardness and unadvisedness disappointing his own good designs. His high station has placed him in the way of great employments, which, without in the least polishing his native rusticity, have given him a tincture of pride and ambition. But these vices would have passed concealed under his natural simplicity, if he had not endeavoured to hide them by art. His disposition to study is the very same with that of a usurer to hoard up money, or of a vicious young fellow to a wench: nothing but avarice and evil concupiscence, to which his constitution has fortunately given a more innocent turn. He is sordid and suspicious in his domesticks, without love or ​hatred; which is but reasonable, since he has neither friend nor enemy; without joy or grief; in short, without all passions but fear, to which of all others he has least temptation, having nothing to get or to lose: no posterity, relation, or friend to be solicitous about; and placed by his station above the reach of fortune or envy. He has found out the secret of preferring men without deserving their thanks; and where he dispenses his favours to persons of merit, they are less obliged to him than to fortune. He is the first of human race, that with great advantages of learning, piety, and station, ever escaped being a great man. That which relishes best with him, is mixed liquor and mixed company; and he is seldom unprovided with very bad of both. He is so wise as to value his own health more than other men's noses, so that the most honourable place at his table is much the worst, especially in summer. It has been affirmed that originally he was not altogether devoid of wit, till it was extruded from his head to make room for other men's thoughts. He will admit a governor, provided it be one who is very officious and diligent, outwardly pious, and one that knows how to manage and make the most of his fear. No man will be either glad or sorry at his death, except his successor.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/Helter Skelter

HELTER SKELTER;
OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNIES, UPON THEIR RIDING THE CIRCUIT.
NOW the active young attornies Briskly travel on their journies, Looking big as any giants, On the horses of their clients; Like so many little Mars's With their tilters at their a—s, Brazen-hilted, lately burnish'd, And with harness-buckles furnish'd, And with whips and spurs so neat, And with jockey coats complete, ​And with boots so very greasy, And with saddles eke so easy, And with bridles fine and gay, Bridles borrow'd for a day, Bridles destin'd far to roam, Ah! never, never to come home. And with hats so very big, sir, And with powder'd caps and wigs, sir, And with ruffles to be shown, Cambrick ruffles not their own; And with Holland shirts so white, Shirts becoming to the sight, Shirts bewrought with different letters, As belonging to their betters. With their pretty tinsel'd boxes, Gotten from their dainty doxies, And with rings so very trim, Lately taken out of lim — And with very little pence, And as very little sense; With some law, but little justice, Having stolen from my hostess, From the barber and the cutler, Like the soldier from the sutler; From the vintner and the tailor, Like the felon from the jailor; Into this and t'other county, Living on the publick bounty; Thorough town and thorough village, All to plunder, all to pillage; Thorough mountains, thorough vallies, Thorough stinking lanes and alleys, ​Some to — kiss with farmers spouses, And make merry in their houses; Some to tumble country wenches On their rushy beds and benches; And if they begin a fray, Draw their swords, and —— run away; All to murder equity, And to take a double fee; Till the people all are quiet, And forget to broil and riot, Low in pocket, cow'd in courage, Safely glad to sup their porridge, And vacation's over — then, Hey, for London town again.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/On Dr. Swift

ON DR. SWIFT. 1733.
NO pedant Bentley proud, uncouth, Nor sweetening dedicator smooth, In one attempt has ever dar'd To sap, or storm, this mighty bard. Nor Envy does, nor Ignorance, Make on his works the least advance. For this, behold! still flies afar Where'er his genius does appear; Nor has that ought to do above, So meddles not with Swift and Jove. A faithful, universal fame In glory spreads abroad his name; Pronounces Swift, with loudest breath, Immortal grown before his death.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/On Dr. Rundle, Bishop of Derry

ON
DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERRY. 1734-5.
MAKE Rundle bishop! fie for shame! An Arian to usurp the name! A bishop in the isle of saints! How will his brethren make complaints! ​Dare any of the mitred host Confer on him the Holy Ghost: In mother church to breed a variance, By coupling orthodox with Arians? Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew, What is there in it strange or new? For, let us hear the weak pretence, His brethren find to take offence; Of whom there are but four at most, Who know there is a Holy Ghost: The rest, who boast they have conferr'd it, Like Paul's Ephesians, never heard it; And, when they gave it, well 'tis known, They gave what never was their own. Rundle a bishop! well he may; He's still a Christian more than they. We know the subject of their quarrels; The man has learning, sense, and morals. There is a reason still more weighty; 'Tis granted he believes a Deity. Has every circumstance to please us, Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus. But why should he with that be loaded, Now twenty years from court exploded, And is not this objection odd From rogues who ne'er believed a God? For liberty a champion stout, Though not so Gospelward devout. While others, hither sent to save us, Come but to plunder and enslave us; Nor ever own'd a power divine, But Mammon, and the German line. Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em? Who show'd a better jus divinum? ​From ancient canons would not vary, But thrice refus'd episcopari. Our bishop's predecessor, Magus, Would offer all the sands of Tagus; Or sell his children, house, and lands, For that one gift, to lay on hands: But all his gold could not avail To have the spirit set to sale. Said surly Peter, "Magus, prithee, Be gone: thy money perish with thee." Were Peter now alive, perhaps, He might have found a score of chaps: Could he but make his gift appear In rents three thousand pounds a year. Some fancy this promotion odd, As not the handiwork of God; Though e'en the bishops disappointed Must own it made by God's anointed, And, well we know, the congé regal Is more secure as well as legal; Because our lawyers all agree, That bishopricks are held in fee. Dear Baldwin chaste, and witty Crosse, How sorely I lament your loss! That such a pair of wealthy ninnies Should slip your time of dropping guineas; For, had you made the king your debtor, Your title had been so much better.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/On Rover, a Lady's Spaniel

ON ROVER. A LADY'S SPANIEL.
INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER.
HAPPIEST of the spaniel race, Painter, with thy colours grace: Draw his forehead large and high, Draw his blue and humid eye; Draw his neck so smooth and round, Little neck with ribands bound; And the muscly swelling breast Where the Loves and Graces rest; And the spreading even back, Soft, and sleek, and glossy black; And the tail that gently twines, Like the tendrils of the vines; And the silky twisted hair, Shadowing thick the velvet ear; Velvet ears, which, hanging low, O'er the veiny temples flow. With a proper light and shade, Let the winding hoop be laid; And within that arching bower (Secret circle, mystick power) In a downy slumber place Happiest of the spaniel race; While the soft respiring dame, Glowing with the softest flame, On the ravish'd favourite pours Balmy dews, ambrosial showers! With thy utmost skill express Nature in her richest dress, ​Limpid rivers smoothly flowing, Orchards by those rivers blowing; Curling woodbine, myrtle shade, And the gay enamell'd mead; Where the linnets sit and sing, Little sportlings of the spring; Where the breathing field and grove Sooth the heart, and kindle love. Here for me, and for the Muse, Colours of resemblance choose, Make of lineaments divine, Daply female spaniels shine, Pretty fondlings of the fair, Gentle damsels' gentle care; But to one alone impart All the flattery of thy art. Crowd each feature, crowd each grace, Which complete the desperate face; Let the spotted wanton dame Feel a new resistless flame; Let the happiest of his race Win the fair to his embrace. But in shade the rest conceal, Nor to sight their joys reveal, Left the pencil and the Muse Loose desires and thoughts infuse.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/On Psyche

ON PSYCHE.
AT two afternoon for our Psyche inquire, Her teakettle's on, and her smock at the fire: So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle; Which has she most need of, a spur or a bridle? Thus a greyhound outruns the whole pack in a race, Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm place. She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain; But ever with prudence takes care of the main. To please you, she knows how to choose a nice bit; For her taste is almost as refin'd as her wit. To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market, It would do your heart good, to see how she will cark it. Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears, She saves half her victuals, by feeding your ears.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/On Stephen Duck

ON STEPHEN DUCK, THE THRESHER AND FAVOURITE POET.
A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730.
THE thresher Duck could o'er the queen prevail, The proverb says, "no fence against a flail." From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains; For which her majesty allows him grains: Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw His poems, think them all not worth a straw! Thrice happy Duck, employed in threshing stubble! Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/Horace, Part of Book I, Sat. IV

HORACE, PART OF BOOK I, SAT. IV,
PARAPHRASED. 1733.
IF noisy Tom should in the senate prate, "That he would answer both for church and state; And, farther to demonstrate his affection, Would take the kingdom into his protection:" All mortals must be curious to inquire, Who could this coxcomb be, and who his sire? "What! thou, the spawn of him who sham'd our isle, Traitor, assassin, and informer vile! Though by the female side you proudly bring, To mend your breed, the murderer of a king; What was thy grandsire, but a mountaineer, Who held a cabin for ten groats a year; Whose master Moore preserved him from the halter! For stealing cows; nor could he read the Psalter! Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chace Thy founder's grandson, and usurp his place? ​Just Heaven! to see the dunghill bastard brood Survive in thee, and make the proverb good? Then vote a worthy citizen to jail, In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"
* ↑ Sir Thomas Prendergast.
* ↑ The father of sir Thomas Prendergast, who engaged in a plot to murder king William III; but, to avoid being hanged, turned informer against his associates, for which he was rewarded with a good estate, and made a baronet.
* ↑ Cadogan's family.
* ↑ A poor thieving cottager under Mr. Moore, condemned at Clonmell assizes to be hanged for stealing cows.
* ↑ The grandfather of Guy Moore, esq., who procured him a pardon.
* ↑ Guy Moore was fairly elected member of parliament for Clonmell; but sir Thomas, depending upon his interest with a certain party then prevailing, and since known by the title of parsonhunters, petitioned the house against him; out of which he was turned upon pretence of bribery, which the paying of his lawful debts was then voted to be.
* ↑ "Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your throat."
* ↑ Mr. George Faulkner. See the following verses. — Mr. Serjeant Bettesworth, a member of the Irish parliament, having made a complaint to the house of commons against the "Satire on Quadrille," they voted Faulkner the printer into custody (who was confined closely in prison three days, when he was in a very bad state of health, and his life in much danger) for not discovering the author.