OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Mary Butler to Jonathan Swift - 7

FROM THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND.
I FIND by yours of the 6th of November, which I did not receive till last night, that you have been so good as to remember your poor relation here. But as your three last never came to hand, I think it very happy, that you have kept your liberty thus long; for I cannot account for my not receiving them any other way, than that they were stopped in the postoffice, and interpreted, as most innocent things are, to mean something very distant from the intention of the writer or actor.
I am surprised at the account you give me of that part of Ireland you have been in: for the best I expect from that grateful country is to be forgotten by the inhabitants. For, to remember with any kindness one under the frowns of the court, is not a gift the Irish are endowed with. I am very sorry to hear you have got the spleen, where a man of your sense must every day meet with things ridiculous enough to make you laugh; but I am afraid, the jests are too low to do so. Change of air is the best thing in the world for your distemper. And if not to cure yourself, at least, have so much goodness for your friends here, as to come and cure us; for it is a distemper we are overrun with. I am sure your company would go a great way toward my recovery; for I assure you, nobody has a greater value for you than I have, and hope I shall have the good fortune to see you before I die. ​I have no sort of correspondence with the person you have not seen, and wonder at nothing they do, or do not do.
I will let your brother and mine know, that you remembered him in my letter. He is as good a man as lives.
I am afraid you will wish you had not encouraged my scribbling to you, when you find I am still such an insipid correspondent; but with that, which I hope will make some amends, am with great sincerity and respect, your most faithful friend and humble servant,
M. ORMOND.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Matthew Prior to Jonathan Swift - 11

FROM MR. PRIOR.
IF I am to chide you for not writing to me, or beg your pardon that I have not writ to you, is a question; for our correspondence has been so long interrupted, that I swear I do not know which of us wrote last. In all cases, I assure you of my continual friendship, and kindest remembrance of you; and with great pleasure, expect the same from you. I have been ill this winter. Age, I find, comes on; and the cough does not diminish.
Non sum qualis eram bonæ Sub Regno Cynaræ ——— Pass for that.
I am tired with politicks, and lost in the South Sea. The roaring of the waves, and the madness of the people, were justly put together. I can send you no sort of news, that holds either connexion or sense. It is all wilder than St. Anthony's dream; and the bagatelle is more solid than any thing, that has been endeavoured here this year. Our old friend Oxford is not well, and continues in Herefordshire. John of Bucks died last night, and Conningsby was sent ​last night to the Tower. I frequently drink your health with lord Harley, who is always the same good man, and grows daily more beloved as more universally known. I do so too with our honest good natured friend Ford, whom I love for many good reasons, and particularly for that he loves you. As to the subscriptions, in which I have given you a great deal of trouble already, to make the rest of that trouble less, I desire you to send the enclosed letter to Mr. Hyde, that he may raze out the names of those gentlemen who have taken out their books, and take what convenient care he can of the remaining books. And as to the pecuniary part, I find no better way than that you will remit it, as you did the former sum, by bill of exchange. Mr. Ford likewise judges this the best, and securest method.
How do you do as to your health? Ave we to see you this summer? Answer me these questions. Give my service to all friends, and believe me to be ever, with great truth and esteem, dear sir, your's,
M. PRIOR.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Philip Stanhope to Jonathan Swift - 1

FROM LORD CHESTERFIELD
YOU need not have made any excuses to me for your solicitation: on the contrary, I am proud of being the first person, to whom you have thought it worth your while to apply, since those changes, which, you say, drove you into distance and obscurity. I very well know the person you recommend to me, having lodged at his house a whole summer at Richmond. I have always heard a very good character of him, which alone would incline me to serve him: but your recommendation, I can assure you, will make me impatient to do it. However, that he may not again meet with the common fate of court suitors, nor I lie under the imputati ​of making court promises, I will exactly explain to you how far it is likely I may be able to serve him.
When first I had this office, I took the resolution of turning out nobody; so that I shall only have the disposal of those places, that the death of the present possessors will procure me. Some old servants, that have served me long and faithfully, have obtained the promises of the first four or five vacancies; and the early solicitations of some of my particular friends, have tied me down for about as many more. But, after having satisfied these engagements, I do assure you, Mr. Launcelot shall be my first care. I confess, his prospect is more remote than I could have wished it, but as it is so remote, he will not have the uneasiness of a disappointment, if he gets nothing; and if he gets something, we shall both be pleased.
As for his political principles, I am in no manner of pain about them. Were he a tory, I would venture to serve him, in the just expectation, that should I ever be charged with having preferred a tory, the person, who was the author of my crime, would likewise be the author of my vindication. I am with real esteem, sir, your most obedient humble servant,
CHESTERFIELD.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Matthew Prior to Jonathan Swift - 9

FROM THE SAME.
HAVING spent part of my summer very agreeably in Cambridgeshire with dear lord Harley, I am returned without him to my own palace in Duke-street, whence I endeavour to exclude all the tumult and noise of the neighbouring court of requests, and to live aut nihil agendo aut aliud agendo, till he comes to town. But there is worse than this yet. I have treated lady Harriot at Cambridge; (Good God! a fellow of a college treat!) and spoke verses to her in a gown and cap! What! the plenipotentiary so far concerned in the damned peace at Utrecht; the man, that makes up half the volume ​of terse prose, that makes up the report of the committee, speaking verses! Sic est, homo sum; and am not ashamed to send those very verses to one, who can make much better. And now let me ask you, How you do? and what you do? How your Irish country air agrees with you, and when you intend to take any English country air? In the spring I will meet you where you will, and go with you where you will; but I believe the best rendezvous will be Duke street, and the fairest field for action Wimple; the lords of both those seats agreeing, that no man will be more welcome to either than yourself.
It is many months since the complaints of my subscribers are redressed, and that they have ceased to call the bookseller a blockhead, by transferring that title to the author. We have not heard from Mr. Hyde; but expect that at his leisure he will signify to Tonson what may relate to that whole matter, as to the second subscriptions. In the mean time, I hope the books have been delivered without any mistake; and shall only repeat to you, that I am sensible of the trouble my poetry has given you, and return you my thanks in plain prose. Earl of Oxford, pro more suo, went late into the country, and continues there still. Our friends are all well; so am I, nisi cum pituita molesta est; which is at this present writing, and will continue so all the winter. So, with weak lungs, and a very good heart, I remain always, sir, your most obedient humble servant,
M. PRIOR.
Service to Matthew Pennyfeather, and all friends. Adieu.
* ↑ Lady Harriot Harley, only daughter of Edward, lord Harley; afterward duchess of Portland.
* ↑ They are printed in what is called by the editor, Samuel Humphreys, esq., the third volume of Prior's Works; and are entitled, "Verses spoken to lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles Harley, in the library of St. John's College, Cambridge, Nov. 9, 1719."
* ↑ The seat of lord Harley.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Mary Butler to Jonathan Swift - 6

FROM THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND.
I DO not know how to account for your long silence, unless your time has been taken up in making an interest with those in power here, for one of the two archbishopricks, that we heard were void, but I am very glad, are not so. Set your heart at rest, for they are promised; and therefore ​you may as well write to a sister, when next you honour this kingdom with any dispatches, as to any greater people. It is a shame to think how you have neglected those of your own house. I had once determined to write to you no more, since no answer was to be expected; but then revenge came into my head, and I was resolved to tease you, till at last, to be quiet, you will send me some plausible excuse at least, for never inquiring after brother or sister. I wonder when you will be good natured enough to come and see how we do; but Ireland has such powerful charms, that I question whether you would leave it to be one of our archbishops. I was at your brother Arran's a good while this summer, and have been much upon the ramble, or else you would have sooner had these just reproaches from me; whom you have no way of appeasing, but by a letter of at least four sides of paper: though I am so good a Christian, upon this occasion, as to be, notwithstanding all this ill treatment, sir,
Your most sincere friend, and humble servant,
M. ORMOND.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Matthew Prior to Jonathan Swift - 12

FROM THE SAME.
I KNOW very well, that you can write a good letter, if you have a mind to it; but that is not the question. A letter from you sometimes is what I desire. Reserve your tropes and periods for those you love less; and let me hear how you do, in whatever humour you are; whether lending your money to the butchers, protecting the weavers, treating the ​women, or construing propria quæ maribus to the country curate. You and I are so established authors, that we may write what we will, without fear of censure; and if we have not lived long enough to prefer the bagatelle to any thing else, we deserved to have had our brains knocked out ten years ago.
I have received the money punctually of Mr. Dan. Hayes, have his receipt, and hereby return you all the thanks, that your friendship in that affair ought to claim, and your generosity does contemn. There is one turn for you: good.
The man you mentioned in your last has been in the country these two years, very ill in his health, and has not for many months been out of his chamber; yet what you observe of him is so true, that his sickness is all counted for policy, that he will not come up, till the publick distractions force somebody or other, (whom God knows) who will oblige somebody else to send for him in open triumph, and set him in statu quo prius. That in the mean time, he has foreseen all that has happened; checkmated all the ministry; and to divert himself at his leisure hours, he has laid all those lime twigs for his neighbour Coningsby, that keep that precious bird in the cage, out of which himself slipped so cunningly and easily.
Things, and the way of men's judging them, vary so much here, that it is impossible to give you any just account of some of our friends actions. Roffen is more than suspected to have given up his party, as ​Sancho did his subjects, for so much a head, l'un portant l'autre. His cause, therefore, which is something originally like that of Lutrin, is opposed or neglected by his ancient friends, and openly sustained by the ministry. He cannot be lower in the opinion of most men, than he is; and I wish our friend Har— were higher than he is.
Our young Harley's vice is no more covetousness, than plainness of speech is that of his cousin Tom. His lordship is really amabilis, and lady Harriette, adoranda.
I tell you no news, but that the whole is a complication of mistakes in policy, and of knavery in the execution of it: of the ministers I speak, for the most part, as well ecclesiastical as civil. This is all the truth I can tell you, except one, which I am sure you receive very kindly, that I am ever your friend and your servant,
M. PRIOR.
Friend Shelton, commonly called Dear Dick, is with me. We drink your health. Adieu.
* ↑ 'Thomas, earl of Coningsby, created so by king George I, in 1719.'
* ↑ Atterbury, bishop of Rochester.
* ↑ Lord Harcourt.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Matthew Prior to Jonathan Swift - 8

FROM MR. PRIOR.
SINCE I love you with all the ties of inclination and friendship, and wish you half the happiness of life, health especially, the chiefest, you will pardon me being a little peevish, when I received your's of the twenty-eighth past, which told me I must not expect to see you here, and that you were not perfectly well at Dublin. I hope there is a little spleen mixed with your distemper; in which case your horse may be your physician, and your physician may have the happiness of being your companion; an honour, which many here would envy him. As to the sang froid of fifty, who has it not, that is worth conversing with, except Harley and Bathurst? at least, make no more that sort of complaint to me. Isthæc commemoratio est quasi exprobratio; for fifty (as Mr. Locke observes) is equal to fifty; and a cough is worse than the spleen. My bookseller is a blockhead; so have they all been, or worse, from Chaucer's scrivener, down to John and Jacob; Mr. Hyde only excepted, to whom my books in quires are consigned, and the greatest care taken, that they are rightly put up. Several of the subscribers to you, requiring their books here, have had them. I need not repeat my thanks to you, for the trouble this ​matter has given you; or intreat your favour for Alma and Solomon. I shall perform your commands to the earl of Oxford, semper idem; and drink your health with our friends, which is all I can do for you at this distance, till your particular order enjoins me any thing, by which I may show you, that I am, and desire always to continue, with the greatest truth and regard, sir, your most obedient and most humble servant,
M. PRIOR.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Fisherman

THE FISHERMAN.
The water rushed, the water swelled, A fisherman sat by, And gazed upon his dancing float With tranquil-dreaming eye. And as he sits, and as he looks, The gurgling waves arise; A maid, all bright with water drops, Stands straight before his eyes.
She sang to him, she spake to him: "My fish why dost thou snare, With human wit and human guile, Into the killing air? Couldst see how happy fishes live Under the stream so clear. Thyself would plunge into the stream, And live for ever there.
"Bathe not the lovely sun and moon Within the cool, deep sea, And with wave-breathing faces rise In twofold witchery? Lure not the misty heaven-deeps, So beautiful and blue? Lures not thine image, mirrored in The fresh eternal dew?
"The water rushed, the water swelled, It clasped his feet, I wis; A thrill went through his yearning heart. As when two lovers kiss! She spake to him, she sang to him: Resistless was her strain; Half drew him in, half lured him in; He ne'er was seen again.
"Half drew him in, half lured him in"
Photogravure from the painting by A. Ring
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Fool's Epilogue

THE FOOL'S EPILOGUE.
Many good works I've done and ended, Ye take the praise—I'm not offended; For in the world, I've always thought Each thing its true position hath sought. When praised for foolish deeds am I, I set off laughing heartily; When blamed for doing something good, I take it in an easy mood. If some one stronger gives me hard blows, That it's a jest, I feign to suppose; But if 'tis one that's but my own like, I know the way such folks to strike. When Fortune smiles, I merry grow, And sing in dulci jubilo; When sinks her wheel, and tumbles me o'er, I think 'tis sure to rise once more.
In the sunshine of summer I ne'er lament, Because the winter it cannot prevent; And when the white snowflakes fall around, I don my skates, and am off with a bound. Though I dissemble as I will, The sun for me will ne'er stand still; ​The old and wonted course is run. Until the whole of life is done; Each day the servant like the lord, In turns comes home, and goes abroad; If proud or humble the line they take, They all must eat, drink, sleep, and wake. So nothing ever vexes me; Act like the fool, and wise ye'll be!
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Friendly Meeting

THE FRIENDLY MEETING.
In spreading mantle to my chin concealed, I trod the rocky path so steep and gray, Then to the wintry plain I bent my way Uneasily, to flight my bosom steeled.
But sudden was the new-born day revealed. A maiden came, in heavenly bright array, Like the fair creatures of the poet's lay In realms of song. My yearning heart was healed!
Yet turned I thence, till she had onward passed, While closer still the folds to draw I tried, As though with heat self-kindled to grow warm; But followed her. She stood. The die was cast! No more within my mantle could I hide; I threw it off,—she lay within mine arm.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Goblet

THE GOBLET.
In my hands I held a brimming goblet, Sculptured quaintly by the carver's cunning, Quaffed with eager lips the strong nepenthe, So at once to drown all care and anguish.
Then came Amor in and found me sitting, And he smiled a smile of serious sweetness As in pity of my foolish purpose.
"Friend, I know a vessel nobler, fairer, Worthy all your soul in it to bury; ​Say what guerdon, if to thee I give it, Fill it for thee with a rarer nectar?"
Oh, he kept his promise, and how truly! Lida, when with thy dear love he blessed me— Me, that for thy sake had long been pining.
When I clasp thy beauties to my bosom, And from thy fond lips, so fond and faithful, Drink the balm of long, long stored affection, Thus entranced, I commune with my spirit.
"No; has never God, save Amor, fashioned Vessel such as this, nor e'er possessed it! Forms so glorious ne'er were shaped by Vulcan, With his finest soul-enprompted mallet.
"On the leaf-clad mountains may Lyæus With his fauns, the hoariest, the sagest, Cull the clusters of the daintiest savour, Yea, may guide the mystic fermentation, Draughts like this not all his skill can furnish!"
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The First Walpurgis-Night

THE FIRST WALPURGIS - NIGHT.
A DRUID.
Sweet smiles the May! The forest gay From frost and ice is freed; No snow is found, Glad songs resound Across the verdant mead. Upon the height The snow lies light, Yet thither now we go, There to extol our Father's name, Whom we for ages know. Amid the smoke shall gleam the flame; Thus pure the heart will grow.
THE DRUIDS.
Amid the smoke shall gleam the flame; Extol we now our Father's name, Whom we for ages know! Up, up, then, let us go!
ONE OF THE PEOPLE.
Would ye, then, so rashly act? Would ye instant death attract? Know ye not the cruel threats Of the victors we obey? Round about are placed their nets In the sinful heathen's way. Ah! upon the lofty wall Wife and children slaughter they; And we all Hasten to a certain fall.
CHORUS OF WOMEN.
Ay, upon the camp's high wall All our children loved they slay. Ah, what cruel victors they! And we all Hasten to a certain fall.
A DRUID.
Who fears to-day His rites to pay, Deserves his chains to wear. The forest's free! This wood take we, And straight a pile prepare! Yet in the wood To stay 'tis good By day till all is still, With watchers all around us placed Protecting you from ill. With courage fresh, then, let us haste Our duties to fulfil.
CHORUS OF WATCHERS.
Ye valiant watchers now divide Your numbers through the forest wide, And see that all is still. While they their rites fulfil.
A WATCHER.
Let us in a cunning wise, Yon dull Christian priests surprise! With the devil of their talk We'll those very priests confound. Come with prong and come with fork, Raise a wild and rattling sound ​Through the livelong night, and prowl All the rocky passes round. Screech-owl, owl, Join in chorus with our howl!
CHOEUS OF WATCHERS.
Come with prong, and come with fork, Like the devil of their talk, And with wildly ratthng sound, Prowl the desert rocks around! Screech-owl, owl, Join in chorus with our howl!
A DRUID.
Thus far 'tis right, That we by night Our Father's praises sing; Yet when 'tis day, To Thee we may A heart unsullied bring. 'Tis true that now. And often, Thou Favourest the foe in fight. As from the smoke is freed the blaze, So let our faith burn bright! And if they crush our olden ways, Who e'er can crush Thy light?
A CHRISTIAN WATCHER.
Comrades, quick! your aid afford! All the brood of hell's abroad: See how their enchanted forms Through and through with flames are glowing! Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms, On in quick succession going! ​Let us, let us haste to fly! Wilder yet the sounds are growing, And the arch fiend roars on high; From the ground Hellish vapours rise around.
CHORUS OF CHRISTIAN WATCHERS.
Terrible enchanted forms, Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms! Wilder yet the sounds are growing! See, the arch fiend comes, all-glowing! From the ground Hellish vapours rise around.
CHORUS OF DRUIDS.
As from the smoke is freed the blaze, So let our faith burn bright! And if they crush our olden ways, Whoe'er can crush Thy light?
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Fox and the Huntsman

THE FOX AND THE HUNTSMAN.
Hard 'tis on a fox's traces To arrive, midst forest-glades; Hopeless utterly the chase is, If his flight the huntsman aids.
​And so 'tis with many a wonder (Why A B make Ab in fact), Over which we gape and blunder, And our head and brains distract.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Frogs

THE FROGS.
A pool was once congealed with frost; The frogs in its deep waters lost, No longer dared to croak or spring; But promised, being half asleep, If suffered to the air to creep, As very nightingales to sing.
A thaw dissolved the ice so strong,— They proudly steered themselves along, When landed, squatted on the shore, And croaked as loudly as before.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Fox and Crane

THE FOX AND CRANE.
Once two persons uninvited Came to join my dinner table; For the nonce they lived united, Fox and crane yclept in fable.
Civil greetings passed between us; Then I plucked some pigeons tender For the fox of Jackal-genus, Adding grapes in full-grown splendour.
Long-necked flasks I put as dishes For the crane without delaying, Filled with gold and silver fishes, In the limpid water playing.
Had ye witnessed Reynard planted At his flat plate all demurely, Ye with envy must have granted: "Ne'er was such a gourmand, surely!"
"While the bird, with circumspection, On one foot as usual cradled, From the flask his fish-refection With his bill and long neck ladled.
One the pigeons praised,—the other, As they went, extolled the fishes, Each one scoffing at his brother For preferring vulgar dishes.
​If thou wouldst preserve thy credit, When thou askest folks to guzzle At thy board, take care to spread it Suited both for bill and muzzle.
# The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/The Freebooter

THE FREEBOOTER
No door has my house, No house has my door; And in and out ever I carry my store.
No grate has my kitchen, No kitchen my grate; Yet roasts it and boils it Both early and late.
My bed has no trestles, My trestles no bed; Yet merrier moments No mortal e'er led.
My cellar is lofty, My barn is full deep. From top to the bottom,— There lie I and sleep.
And soon as I waken, All moves on its race; My place has no fixture, My fixture no place.