OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Virgin's Choice

* "The Virgin's Choice", in Battle of the Boyn, or, King William crossing the Boyn Water (n.d.), a chapbook with no printing information
* "The Virgin's Choice", in Virgin's Choice, or, Youth Preferred to Old Age (1800), a chapbook printed in Glasgow
# The Virginia Ehrman and the Agnese

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
97 U.S. 309
The Virginia Ehrman and the Agnese
APPEALS from the Circuit Court of the United States for the District of Maryland.
The facts are stated in the opinion of the court.
Mr. I. Nevett Steele and Mr. A. A. Strout for the libellants.
Mr. S. Teakle Wallis for the 'Virginia Ehrman,' and Mr. Charles Marshall for the 'Agnese.'
MR. JUSTICE CLIFFORD delivered the opinion of the court.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Vireo

"Upon the lofty elm-tree sprays"
* "Upon the lofty elm-tree sprays" in Excursions (1863)
* "The Vireo" in Poems of Nature (1895)
# The Virgin Martyr

First known date of poem.
Every wild she-bird has nest and mate in the warm April weather, But a captive woman, made for love, no mate, no nest, has she. In the spring of young desire, young men and maids are wed together, And the happy mothers flaunt their bliss for all the world to see. Nature's sacramental feast for them - an empty board for me.
I, a young maid once, an old maid now, deposed, despised, forgotten - I, like them, have thrilled with passion and have dreamed of nuptial rest, Of the trembling life within me of my children unbegotten, Of a breathing new-born body to my yearning bosom prest, Of the rapture of a little soft mouth drinking at my breast.
Time, that heals so many sorrows, keeps mine ever-freshly aching, Though my face is growing furrowed and my brown hair turning white. Still I mourn my irremediable loss, asleep or waking; Still I hear my son's voice calling "Mother" in the dead of night, And am haunted by my girl's eyes that will never see the light.
O my children that I might have had! My children lost for ever! O the goodly years that might have been, now desolate and bare! O God, what have I lacked, what have I done, that I should never Take my birthright like the others, take the crown that women wear, And possess the common heritage to which all flesh is heir.
This work is in the public domain in Australia because it was created in Australia and the term of copyright has expired. According to Australian Copyright Council - Duration of Copyright, the following works are public domain:
* published non-government works whose author died before January 1, 1955,
* anonymous or pseudonymous works and photographs published before January 1, 1955, and
* government works published more than 50 years ago (before January 1, 1974).
This work is also in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in Australia on the URAA date (January 1, 1996). This is the combined effect of Australia having joined the Berne Convention in 1928, and of 17 USC 104A with its critical date of January 1, 1996.
Because the Australian copyright term in 1996 was 50 years, the critical date for copyright in the United States under the URAA is January 1, 1946.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1926, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 97 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Joan Cudgels Ned

JOAN CUDGELS NED. 1723.
JOAN cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully. Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan, She dares not say her life's her own. Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned, And every day she combs his head.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/In Sickness

IN SICKNESS.
Written in Ireland October 1714.
'TIS true — then why should I repine To see my life so fast decline? But why obscurely here alone, Where I am neither lov'd nor known? My state of health none care to learn; My life is here no soul's concern: And those with whom I now converse Without a tear will tend my hearse. Remov'd from kind Arbuthnot's aid, Who knows his art, but not his trade, Preferring his regard for me Before his credit, or his fee. Some formal visits, looks, and words, What mere humanity affords, I meet perhaps from three or four, From whom I once expected more; Which those who tend the sick for pay Can act as decently as they: But no obliging tender friend To help at my approaching end. ​My life is now a burden grown To others, ere it be my own. Ye formal weepers for the sick, In your last offices be quick; And spare my absent friends the grief To hear, yet give me no relief; Expir'd to day, intomb'd to morrow. When known, will save a double sorrow.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Jealousy

JEALOUSY. BY THE SAME.
O Shield me from his rage, celestial powers! This tyrant, that embitters all my hours! Ah! Love! you've poorly play'd the hero's part: You conquered, but you can't defend my heart. When first I bent beneath your gentle reign, I thought this monster banish'd from your train: But you would raise him to support your throne; And now he claims your empire as his own. Or tell me, tyrants! have you both agreed, That where one reigns, the other shall succeed?
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Horace, Book I. Ode XIV.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XIV.
PARAPHRASED, AND INSCRIBED TO IRELAND. 172
THE INSCRIPTION.
Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves, Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves; Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand: Thou, fix'd of old, be now the moving land? Although the metaphor be worn and stale, Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail; Let me suppose thee for a ship awhile, And thus address thee in the sailor's style.
New waves shall drive thee to the deep again. Look to thyself, and be no more the sport Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port. ​Lost are thy oars, that us'd thy course to guide, Like faithful counsellors, on either side. Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood The single pillar for his country's good, To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind, Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind. Your cables burst, and you must quickly feel The waves impetuous enter at your keel. Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke, When the strong cords of union once are broke. Torn by a sudden tempest is thy sail, Expanded to invite a milder gale. As when some writer in a publick cause His pen, to save a sinking nation, draws, While all is calm, his arguments prevail; The people's voice expands his paper sail; Till power, discharging all her stormy bags, Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags. The nation scar'd, the author doom'd to death, Who fondly put his trust in popular breath. A larger sacrifice in vain you vow; There's not a power above will help you now: A nation thus, who oft Heaven's call neglects, In vain from injur'd Heaven relief expects. 'Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke, That thy descent is from the British oak; Or, when your name and family you boast, From fleets triumphant o'er the Gallick coast, Such was Ierne's claim, as just as thine, Her sons descended from the British line; Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains On French records for twenty long campaigns: Yet, from an empress now a captive grown, She sav'd Britannia's rights, and lost her own. ​In ships decay'd no mariner confides, Lur'd by the gilded stern and painted sides: Yet at a ball unthinking fools delight In the gay trappings of a birthday night: They on the gold brocades and satins rav'd, And quite forgot their country was enslav'd. Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just, Nor change thy course with every sudden gust; Like supple patriots of the modern sort, Who turn with every gale that blows from court. Weary and seasick when in thee confin'd, Now for thy safety cares distract my mind; As those who long have stood the storms of state, Retire, yet still bemoan their country's fate. Beware, and when you hear the surges roar, Avoid the rocks on Britain's angry shore. They lie, alas! too easy to be found; For thee alone they lie the island round.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Horace, Book IV. Ode IX.

HORACE, BOOK IV. ODE IX.
ADDRESSED TO ABP. KING. 1718.
VIRTUE conceal'd within our breast Is inactivity at best: But never shall the Muse endure To let your virtues lie obscure; Or suffer Envy to conceal Your labours for the publick weal. Within your breast all wisdom lies, Either to govern or advise; Your steady soul preserves her frame, In good and evil times the same. ​Pale Avarice and lurking Fraud, Stand in your sacred presence aw'd; Your hand alone from gold abstains, Which drags the slavish world in chains. Him for a happy man I own, Whose fortune is not overgrown; And happy he, who wisely knows To use the gifts that Heaven bestows; Or, if it please the Powers Divine, Can suffer want, and not repine. The man, who infamy to shun Into the arms of death would run; That man is ready to defend, With life, his country or his friend.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Letter to Dr. Sheridan

The next poem, Dr. Sheridan's Answer, is a response to this poem.
TO DR. SHERIDAN.
1 P. S.
I wish, when you prated, your letter you'd dated: Much plague it created. I scolded and rated; My soul is much grated; for your man I long waited. I think you are fated, like a bear to be baited: Your man is belated: the case I have stated; And me you have cheated. My stable's unslated. Come back t' us well freighted. I remember my late head; and wish you translated, For teasing me.
2 P. S.
Mrs. Dingley desires me singly Her service to present you; hopes that will content you; But Johnson madam is grown a sad dame, For want of your converse, and cannot send one verse.
3 P. S.
You keep such a twattling with you and your bottling; But I see the sum total, we shall ne'er have a bottle; The long and the short, we shall not have a quart. I wish you would sign't, that we have a pint. For all your colloguing, I'd be glad of a knoggin: But I doubt 'tis a sham; you won't give us a dram. 'Tis of shine a mouth moon-full, you won't part with a spoonful, And I must be nimble, if I can fill my thimble. You see I won't stop, till I come to a drop; But I doubt the oraculum, is a poor supernaculum; Though perhaps you may tell it, for a grace if we smell it.
Stella.
* ↑ In this letter, though written in prose, the reader upon examining, will find each second sentence rhimes to the former.
* ↑ Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley.
* ↑ A knoggin is a name used in Ireland for the English quartern.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Horace, Book III. Ode II.

HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II.
TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER.
Sent to him when in the Tower, 1716.
HOW blest is he, who for his country dies, Since death pursues the coward as he flies? The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack, With trembling knees and Terrour at his back; Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind, Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind. Virtue repuls'd, yet knows not to repine; But shall with unattainted honour shine; Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down, Just as the rabble please to smile or frown. Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try Some new unbeaten passage to the sky; Where Jove a seat among the gods will give To those who die, for meriting to live. Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward; Within our breast be every secret barr'd! He, who betrays his friend, shall never be Under one roof, or in one ship, with me. For who with traitors would his safety trust, Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just? And, though the villain 'scape a while, he feels Slow Vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From Jonathan Swift to John Towers - 1

TO THE REV. MR. JOHN TOWERS,
PREBENDARY OF ST. PATRICK'S, AT POWERSCOURT, NEAR BRAY.
SIR,
I CANNOT imagine what business it is that so entirely employs you. I am sure it is not to gain money, but to spend it; perhaps it is to new cast and contrive your house and gardens at 400l. more expense. I am sorry it should cost you two pence to have an account of my health, which is not worth a penny; yet I struggle, and ride, and walk, and am temperate, and drink wine on purpose to delay, or make abortive, those schemes proposed for a successor; and if I were well, I would counterfeit myself sick, as Toby Matthews, archbishop of York, used to do when all the bishops were gaping to succeed him. It is one good sign that giddiness is peculiar to youth, and I find I grow giddier as I grow ​older, and, therefore, consequently I grow younger. If you will remove six miles nearer, I shall be content to come and spunge upon you as poor as you are, for I cannot venture to be half a day's journey from Dublin, because there is no sufficient medium of flesh between my skin and my bones, particularly in the parts that lie upon the saddle. Therefore, be pleased to send me three dozen ounces of flesh before I attempt such an adventure, or get me a six mile inn between this town and your house. The cathedral organ and backside are painting and mending, by which I have saved a sermon; and, as the rogues of workmen go on, I may save another.
How, a wonder, came young Acheson to be among you? I believe neither his father nor mother know any thing of him; his mother is at Grange with Mrs. Acheson, her mother, and, I hear, is very ill of her asthma and other disorders, got by cards, and laziness, and keeping ill hours. Ten thousand sackfuls of such knights and such sons are, in my mind, neither worth rearing nor preserving, I count upon it that the boy is good for nothing. I am, sir, with great truth, your obedient, humble servant,
J. SWIFT.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From Jonathan Swift to Laetitia Pilkington - 1

TO MRS. PILKINGTON.
I SEND you your bit of a newspaper with the verses, than which I never saw better in their kind. I have the same opinion of those you were pleased to ​write upon me, as have also some particular friends of genius and taste, to whom I ventured to communicate them, who universally agree with me. But ​as I cannot with decency show them, except to a very few, I hope, for both our sakes, others will do it for me. I can only assure you I value your present, as much as either of the others, only you must permit it to be turned into a pen; which office I will perform with my own hand, and never permit any other to use it. I heartily wish you many happy new years; and am, with true esteem, madam, your most obliged friend and servant,
J. SWIFT.
* ↑ Mrs. Pilkington, when she was about sixteen, having been teased by her brother to write some verses as a school exercise for him, asked him what she should write upon: Why, said he pertly, what should you write upon but paper? So taking it for her subject, she writ the following lines; which, four years after, were printed in one of the London newspapers. See Pilkington's Memoirs, vol. I, p. 88. O spotless paper, fair and white! On whom, by force, constrain'd I write, How cruel am I to destroy Thy purity, to please a boy? Ungrateful I, thus to abuse The fairest servant of the Muse. Dear friend, to whom I oft impart The choicest secrets of my heart; Ah, what atonement can be made For spotless innocence betray'd! How fair, how lovely didst thou show, Like lilied banks, or falling snow! But now, alas! become my prey, No floods can wash thy stains away; Yet this small comfort I can give, That which destroy'd, shall make thee live.
* ↑ Mrs. Pilkington having heard that Dr. Swift had received a paper book, richly bound and gilt, from the earl of Orrery, and a silver standish from Dr. Delany, sent him an eagle quill with the following verses upon his birthday, Nov. 30, 1732: Shall then my kindred all my glory claim, And boldly rob me of eternal fame? To ev'ry art my gen'rous aid I lend, To musick, painting, poetry, a friend. 'Tis I celestial harmony inspire, When fix'd to strike the sweetly warbling wire. I to the faithful canvas have consign'd Each bright idea of the painter's mind; Behold from Raphael's skydipt pencils rise Such heav'nly scenes as charm the gazer's eyes. O let me now aspire to higher praise! Ambitious to transcribe your deathless lays: Nor thou, immortal bard, my aid refuse, Accept me as the servant of your Muse; Then shall the world my wond'rous worth declare, And all mankind your matchless pen revere. $^§$↑ Quills of the harpsichord.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From Jonathan Swift to John Barber - 2

TO MR. ALDERMAN BARBER.
I HAVE received yours of July 27th; and two days ago had a letter from Mr. Pope, with a dozen lines from my lord Bolingbroke, who tells me he is just going to France, and I suppose, designs to continue there as long as he lives. I am very sorry he is under a necessity of selling Dawley. Pray, let me know whether he be tolerably easy in his fortunes; for he has these several years lived very expensively. Is his lady still alive? and has he still a country house and an estate of hers to live on! I should be glad to live so long, as to see his History of his ​own Times; which would be a work very worthy of his lordship and will be a defence of that ministry, and a justification of our late glorious queen, against the malice, ignorance, falsehood, and stupidity of our present times and managers. I very much like Mr. Pope's last poem, entitled MDCCXXXVIII, called Dialogue II; but I live so obscurely, and know so little of what passes in London, that I cannot know the names of persons and things by initial letters.
I am very glad to hear that the duke of Ormond lives so well at ease and in so good health, as well as with so valuable a companion. His grace has an excellent constitution at so near to fourscore. Mr. Dunkin is not in town, but I will send to him when I hear he is come. I extremely love my lord and lady Oxford; but his way of managing his fortune is not to be endured. I remember a rascally butcher, one Morley, a great landjobber and knave, who was his lordship's manager, and has been the principal cause of my lord's wrong conduct, in which you agree with me in blaming his weakness and credulity. I desire you will please, upon occasion, to present my humble service to my lord and lady Oxford, and to my lord Bathurst. I just expected the character you give of young * * * * * . I hated him from a boy. I wonder Mr. Ford is alive; perhaps, walking preserves him.
I very much lament your asthma. I believe temperance and exercise have preserved me from it.
I seldom walk less than four miles, sometimes six, eight, ten, or more, never beyond my own limits; or, if it rains, I walk as much through the house, up and down stairs: and if it were not for this cruel ​deafness, I would ride through the kingdom, and half through England; pox on the modern phrase Great Britain, which is only to distinguish it from Little Britain, where old clothes and old books are to be bought and sold! However, I will put Dr. Sheridan (the best scholar in both kingdoms) upon taking your receipt for a terrible asthma. I wish you were rich enough to buy and keep a horse, and ride every tolerable day twenty miles.
Mr. Richardson is, I think, still in London. I assure you, he is very grateful to me, and is too wise and discreet to give any just occasion of complaint, by which he must be a great loser in reputation, and a greater in his fortune.
I have not written so much this many a day. I have tired myself much; but, in revenge, I will tire you.
I am, dear Mr. alderman, with very great esteem,
Your most obedient and most humble servant.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From Jonathan Swift to John Stanley - 1

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR JOHN STANLEY, BART.
I HAVE had, for several months, a strong application made me, by a person for whose virtue, honour, and good sense, I have a great esteem, to write to you in behalf of one of your tenants here, whose case I send you enclosed; and if he relates it with truth and candour, I expect you will comply with his request, because I have known you long, and have always highly esteemed and loved you, as you cannot deny: I know you will think it hard for me, or any one, to interfere in a business of property: but I very well understand the practice of Irish tenants to English landlords, and of those landlords to their tenants. Yet, if what Mr. Wilding desires is rightly represented, that he has been a great improver, his offers reasonable, his gains by no means exorbitant, and his payments regular, you neither must nor shall act as an Irish racking squire. I have inquired about this tenant, and hear a good account of his honesty; and that worthy friend, who recommends him to me, durst not deceive me: so I ​fully reckon that you will obey my commands, or show me strong reasons to the contrary; in which case I will break with that friend, and drive your tenant out of doors, whenever he presumes to open his lips again to me on any occasion.
I have one advantage by this letter, that it gives me a fair occasion of inquiring after your health, and where you live, and how you employ your leisure, and what share I keep in your good will. As to myself, years and infirmities have sunk my spirits to nothing. My English friends are all either dead or in exile, or, by a prudent oblivion, have utterly dropped me; having loved this present world. And as to this country, I am only a favourite of my old friends the rabble, and I return their love because I know none else who deserve it. May you live long happy and beloved, as you have ever been by the best and wisest of mankind. And if ever you happen to think of me, remember that I have always been, and shall ever continue, with the truest respect and esteem, sir,
Your most obedient and
obliged servant,
J. SWIFT.