OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From Jonathan Swift to Esther Vanhomrigh - 6 (Translation)

Translation of letter: From Jonathan Swift to Esther Vanhomrigh - 6
TO VANESSA.
MAY 12, 1719.
I MAKE you my compliments on your perfection in the French language. It is necessary to know you long, in order to know all your accomplishments: by perpetually seeing and hearing you, new ones appear, which before were concealed. It is a reproach to me, that I know only the Gascon and Patois in comparison of you. There is nothing to be objected, either as to the orthography, propriety, elegance, ease, or spirit. And what a blockhead am I to answer you in the same language, you who are incapable of any folly, unless it be the esteem that you are pleased to entertain for me; for it is no merit, nor any proof of my good taste, to find out in you all that nature has bestowed on a mortal; that is to say, honour, virtue, good sense, wit, sweetness, agreeableness, and firmness of soul; but by concealing yourself, as you do, the world knows you not, and you lose the eulogy of millions. Ever since I have had the honour of knowing you, I have always remarked, that neither in private, nor in general conversation, has one word ever escaped you, which could be better expressed. And I protest, that after making frequently the most severe criticisms, I never have been able to find the least fault, either in your actions, or your words. Coquetry, affectation, prudery, ​are imperfections which you never knew. And with all this, do you think it possible not to esteem you above the rest of humankind? What beasts in petticoats are the most excellent of those, whom I see dispersed throughout the world, in comparison of you! On seeing, on hearing them, I say a hundred times a day, speak not, look not, think not, do nothing like those wretches. What a misfortune to be the occasion of bringing down contempt on so many women; who, but for the thoughts of you, would be a little tolerable! But it is time to put an end to this trouble, and to bid you adieu. I am, and ever shall remain, with all possible respect, sincerity and esteem, yours.
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# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From Jonathan Swift to George Faulkner - 1

TO MR. FAULKNER.
JUNE 29, 1733.
I DESIRE Mrs. Pilkington will deliver you the paper relating to Gulliver, which I left with her husband. For, since you intend to print a new edition of that book, I must tell you, that the English printer made several alterations which I much disapprove of, and cannot set them right without those papers.
If I am not mistaken, Mr. Pilkington hath an edition of Gulliver, where the true original copy is interleaved in manuscript; I desire I may also see that book. I am,
Your humble servant,
J. SWIFT.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 13/From Jonathan Swift to Elizabeth Germain - 4

TO LADY BETTY GERMAIN.
I WRITE this letter to your ladyship, in the employment you have chosen of being a go-between the duke of Dorset and me. I must preface this letter with an honest declaration, That I never proposed any one thing to his grace, wherein I did not chiefly consult his honour and the general opinion of the kingdom. I had the honour to know him from a boy, as I did your ladyship from a child; and yet, excepting great personal civilities, I never was able to obtain the favour of getting one church preferment for any friend, except one too inconsiderable to mention. I writ to, and told my lord duke, that there was a certain family here, called the Grattans, and that they could command ten thousand men: two of them are parsons, as you whigs call them; another is lord mayor of this city, and was knighted by his grace a month or two ago. But there is another cousin of theirs, who is a Grattan, though his name be John Jackson, as worthy a clergyman as any in this kingdom. He lives upon his own small estate, four miles from this town, and in his own parish; but he has four children. He only wants some little addition of a hundred pounds a year; for he has laid out eight hundred pounds, to build upon his ​own small estate in his own parish, which he cannot leave; and we cannot spare him. He has lain a weight upon my shoulders for many years; and I have often mentioned him to my lord duke as a most deserving person. His grace has now an opportunity to help him. One Mr. Ward, who died this morning, had a deanery of small value: it was a hedge deanery, my lord duke will tell you what I mean; we have many of them in Ireland: but, as it does not require living there, except a month or two in the year, although it be but of forty or fifty pounds yearly rent, it will be a great ease to him. He is no party man, but a loyal subject. It is the deanery of Cloyne: he is well acquainted with the bishop, who is Dr. Berkeley: I have reasons enough to complain of my lord duke, who absolutely refused to provide for a most worthy man, whom he had made one of his chaplains before he came over: and therefore, if he will not consent to give this poor deanery to Mr. John Jackson, I will fall out with him for ever. I desire your ladyship to let the duke know all this.
Somebody read a part of a newspaper to me the other day, wherein your saucy niece is mentioned as married, with five and forty thousand pounds to her fortune. I desire to present her with my most humble service, and that we may be friends for the future. I hope your ladyship still preserves your health and good humour. Your virtues I am in no pain about; for you are confirmed in them by your education and birth, as well as by constant practice. I pray God preserve you long, for the good you do to the world, and for your happiness hereafter.
I will (notwithstanding your commands to the ​contrary) be so bold to tell you, that I am, with the greatest respect and esteem,
Madam,
your ladyship's
most obedient and
obliged humble servant.
# The fables of Aesop by William Caxton (Jacobs)/Vol. II/Liber Quintus/Fable 11

* related portals: Aesop's Fables.
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Numbered 702 in the Perry Index. Translated from French by William Caxton and first published in 1484. Click here to create an annotated version of this text.
¶ The xj fable is of the enuyous dogge /
one ought not to haue enuye of good of other / As it appiereth by this fable / Of a dogge whiche was enuyous / and that somtyme was within a stable of oxen / the whiche was ful of heye / This dogge kept the oxen that they shold not entre in to theyr stable / and that they shold not ete of the sayd hey / And thenne the oxen sayd to hym / thow arte wel peruers and euylle to haue enuye of the good / the whiche is to vs nedefull and prouffitable / and thow hast of hit nought to doo / for thy kynde is not to ete no hey / And thus he dyd of a grete bone / the whiche he held at his mouthe / and wold not leue hit by cause and for enuye of another dogge / whiche was therby / And therfore kepe the wel fro the company or felauship of an enuyous body / For to haue to doo with hym hit is moche peryllous and dyffycyle / As to vs is wel shewen by Lucyfer
# The fables of Aesop by William Caxton (Jacobs)/Vol. II/Liber Quintus/Fable 4

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Numbered 640 in the Perry Index. Translated from French by William Caxton and first published in 1484. Click here to create an annotated version of this text.
¶ The fourthe fable is of the dragon and of the herte
En ought not to rendre euylle for good / And them that helpen ought not to be letted / As reherceth thys fable Of a dragon whiche was within a Ryuer / and as this Ryuer was dymynuysshed of water / the dragon abode at the Ryuage / whiche was al drye / And thus for lack of watre he coude not stere hym / A labourer or vylayne came thēne that waye / and demaunded of the dragon / what dost thow there / And the dragon ansuerd to hym / I am here lefte withoute water / withoute whiche I can not meue / but yf thow wilt bynd me / and sette me vpon thyn asse / and lede me in to my Ryuer / I shal gyue to the habondaunce of gold and syluer / And the vylayne or chorle for courtyse bound and ledde hym in to his repayre / And whanne he had vnbounden hym / he demaunded his sallary / and payment / And the dragon sayd to hym / By cause that thow hast bounden me / thow ​wylt be payd And by cause that I am now hongry / I shalle ete the / and the vylayne ansuerd and sayd / For to haue done wel / thow wylt ete and deuoure me / And as they stryued to gyder / the foxe whiche was within the forest herd wel theyr question and different came to them / and sayd in this manere / Stryue ye no more to gyder / For I wyll acord / and make pees bytwixt you Late eche of yow telle to me his reason for to wete / whiche of yow hath ryght / And whanne eche of them had told his caas the foxe sayd to the vylayne / Shewe thow to me / how thow boundest the dragon / to thende / that I may gyue therof a trewe and lawfull sentence / And the vylayne put the dragon vpon his asse / and bound hym as he had done before / And the fox demaunded of the dragon / helde he thenne the so fast bounden / as he dothe now / And the dragon ansuerd / ye my lord / and yet more hard / And the foxe sayd to the vylayn / Bynde hym yet more harder / For who that wel byndeth / well can he vnbynd And whanne the dragon was fast and wel bounden / the fox sayd to the vylayne / bere hym ageyne there as thow fyrst tokest hym / And there thow shalt leue hym bounden as he is now / And thus he shalle not ete ne deuoure the / For he that dothe euylle / euylle he must ​haue / For Justly he shall ben punysshed of god / they that done harme and dommage to the poure folke For who so euer rendreth euylle for good / he shalle therof iustly be rewarded
# The fables of Aesop by William Caxton (Jacobs)/Vol. II/Liber Quintus/Fable 15

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Numbered 705 in the Perry Index. Translated from French by William Caxton and first published in 1484. Click here to create an annotated version of this text.
¶ The xv fable is of the dogge / of the wulf and of the whether
Rete folye is to a fool that hath no myght / that wylle begyle another stronger than hym self / as reherceth this fable of a fader of famylle whiche had a grete herd or flock of sheep / and had a grete dogge for to kepe them which was wel stronge / And of his voys all the wolues were aferd wherfore the sheepherd slepte more surely / but it happed / that this dogge for his grete age deyde / wherfore the sheepherdes were sore troubled and wrothe / and sayd one to other / we shall no more slepe at oure ease by cause that our dogge is dede / for the wulues shall now come and ete our sheep / ¶ And thenne a grete wether fyers and prowd / whiche herd alle these wordes came to them and sayd / I shalle gyue yow good counceylle / Shaue me / and put on me the skynne of the dogge And whanne the wulues shalle see me / they shalle haue grete fere of me /  ¶ And whanne the wulues came and sawe the wether clothed with the skynne of the dogge / ​they beganne all to flee / and ranne awey / ¶ It happed on a day that a wulf whiche was sore hongry / came and toke a lambe / and after ran awaye therwith / ¶ And thenne the sayd wether ranne atter hym / And the wulf whiche supposed that it had ben the dogge shote thryes by the waye for the grete fere that he had / And ranne euer as fast as he coude / and the wether also ranne after hym withoute cesse / tyl that he ranne thurgh a busshe full of sharp thornes / the whiche thornes rente and brake alle the dogges skynne / whiche was on hym / And as the wulf loked and sawe behynde hym / beynge moche doubtous of his dethe / sawe and perceyued alle the decepcion and falshede of the wether / And forthwith retorned ageynste hym / and demaunded of hym / what beest arte thow / And the wether ansuerd to hym in this maner / My lord I am a wether whiche playeth with the / And the wulf sayd / Ha mayster ought ye to playe with your mayster and with your lord / thow hast made me so sore aferd / that by the waye as I ranne before the/ I dyte shyte thre grete toordes / And thene the wulf ledde hym unto the place where as he had shyte / sayenge thus to hym / loke hyther / callest thow this a playe / I take hit not for playe / For now I shalle shewe to the / how thow oughtest not to playe so with thy lord / And thenne ​the wulf took and kylled hym / and deuoured and ete hym / ¶ And therfore he that is wyse muste take good hede / how he playeth with hym whiche is wyser / more sage / and more stronge / than hym self is /
# The fables of Aesop by William Caxton (Jacobs)/Vol. II/Liber Quintus/Fable 2

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Numbered 694 in the Perry Index. Translated from French by William Caxton and first published in 1484. Click here to create an annotated version of this text.
¶ The second fable is of the bore and of the wulf
Vche desyren to be grete lordes / and dyspreysen his parents / that at the last becomen poure and fallen in to grete dishonour / As thow mayst see by this present fable / Of a bore / whiche was amonge a grete herd of other swynes / And for to haue lordship and domynacion ouer alle them / he beganne to make grete rumour / and shewed his grete teethe for to make the other swynes aferd / but by cause they knewe hym / they sette naught by hym / wherof he displeased moche/ and wold goo in to a herd of sheep / and emonge lambes / And whanne he was amonge the lambes / he began to make grete rumour / and shewed his sharp and long teeth ¶ And whanne the lambes herd hym / they were sore aferd / and begganne to shake for fere / ¶ And thenne sayd the bore within hym self / here is the place wherin I must abyde and duell For here I shalle be gretely worshipped / For euerychone quaken for fere of me / ¶ Thenne came the wulf there for to haue and rauysse somme proye / And ​the lambes beganne alle to flee / but the bore as prowd wold not stere hym / ne go fro the place / by cause he supposed to be lord / but the wulf toke hym / and bare hym in to the wode for to ete hym / ¶ And as the wulf bare hym / it happed that he parted before the herd of swynes / whiche the bore had lefte / ¶ And thenne whanne the bore perceyued and knewe them / he prayd and cryed to them / that for the loue of god they wold helpe hym / And that withoute her help / he was deed / And thenne the swynes alle of one assent and owne wylle wente and recouered theyr felewe / and after slewe the wulf / And as the bore was delyuerd / and sawe hym amonge the swynes / and that alle his doubte and fere was gone / he beganne to haue vergoyne and shame / by cause that he was thus departed / and gone fro theyr felauship and sayd to them / My bretheren and my frendes / I am well worthy to haue had this payne / by cause / I was gone & departed from yow / And therfore he that is wel / lete hym beware that he moue not hym self / For suche by his pryde desyreth to be a grete lord / whiche ofte falleth in grete pouerte /
# The fables of Aesop by William Caxton (Jacobs)/Vol. II/Liber Quintus/Fable 3

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Numbered 562 in the Perry Index. Translated from French by William Caxton and first published in 1484. Click here to create an annotated version of this text.
¶ The thyrd fable is of the foxe and of the cocke /
Ftyme moche talkynge letteth / As hit appiereth by this fable / Of a foxe / whiche came toward a Cocke / And sayd to hym / I wold fayne wete / yf thow canst as wel synge as thy fader dyde / And thenne the Cock shette his eyen / and beganne to crye and synge / ¶ And thenne the Foxe toke and bare hym awey / And the peple of the towne cryed / the foxe bereth awey the cok / ¶ And thenne the Cocke sayd thus to the Foxe / My lord vnderstandest thow not / what the peple sayth / that thow berest awey theyr cock / telle to them / that it is thyn / and not theyrs/ And as the foxe sayd / hit is not yours / but it is myn / the cok scaped fro the foxe mouthe / and flough vpon a tree / And thenne the Cok sayd to the fox thow lyest / For I am theyrs and not thyn / And thenne the foxe beganne to hytte erthe bothe with his mouthe & heed sayenge / mouthe / thow hast spoken to moche / thow sholdest haue eten the Cok / had not be thyn ​ouer many wordes / And therfor ouer moche talkyng letteth / and to moche crowynge smarteth / therfore kepe thy self fro ouer many wordes / to thende / that thow repentest the not
# The man who found himself (Smith's Magazine 1920)

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Extracted from Smith's Magazine 1920 April, pp. 107–143 & May pp. 275–314. Victor Perard. Also published as Uncle Simon (1920). The book appears to be longer, besides being formatted differently.
The Man Who Found Himself
By Margaret and H. De Vere Stacpoole
ILLUSTRATED BY VICTOR PERARD
* PART I April 1920
* Chapter I 107
* Chapter II 111
* Chapter III 116
* Chapter IV 119
* Chapter V 123
* Chapter VI 128
* Chapter VII 131
* Chapter VIII 137
* PART II May 1920
* Chapter IX 275
* Chapter X 283
* Chapter XI 287
* Chapter XII 290
* Chapter XIII 293
* Chapter XIV 295
* Chapter XV 298
* Chapter XVI 301
* Chapter XVII 306
* Chapter XVIII 308
* Chapter XIX 312
* Chapter XX 313
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 1951, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 72 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 man against the sky; a book of poems/Veteran Sirens

VETERAN SIRENS
The ghost of Ninon would be sorry now To laugh at them, were she to see them here, So brave and so alert for learning how To fence with reason for another year.
Age offers a far comelier diadem Than theirs; but anguish has no eye for grace, When time's malicious mercy cautions them To think a while of number and of space.
The burning hope, the worn expectancy, The martyred humor, and the maimed allure, Cry out for time to end his levity, And age to soften its investiture;
But they, though others fade and are still fair, Defy their fairness and are unsubdued; Although they suffer, they may not forswear The patient ardor of the unpursued.
Poor flesh, to fight the calendar so long; Poor vanity, so quaint and yet so brave; Poor folly, so deceived and yet so strong, So far from Ninon and so near the grave.
# The man against the sky; a book of poems/Theophilus

THEOPHILUS
By what serene malevolence of names Had you the gift of yours, Theophilus? Not even a smeared young Cyclops at his games Would have you long,—and you are one of us.
Told of your deeds I shudder for your dreams, And they, no doubt, are few and innocent. Meanwhile, I marvel; for in you, it seems, Heredity outshines environment.
What lingering bit of Belial, unforeseen, Survives and amplifies itself in you? What manner of devilry has ever been That your obliquity may never do?
Humility befits a father's eyes, But not a friend of us would have him weep. Admiring everything that lives and dies, Theophilus, we like you best asleep.
Sleep—sleep; and let us find another man To lend another name less hazardous: Caligula, maybe, or Caliban, Or Cain,—but surely not Theophilus.
# The man against the sky; a book of poems/The Poor Relation

THE POOR RELATION
No longer torn by what she knows And sees within the eyes of others, Her doubts are when the daylight goes, Her fears are for the few she bothers. She tells them it is wholly wrong Of her to stay alive so long; And when she smiles her forehead shows A crinkle that had been her mother's.
Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain, And wistful yet for being cheated, A child would seem to ask again A question many times repeated; But no rebellion has betrayed Her wonder at what she has paid For memories that have no stain, For triumph born to be defeated.
To those who come for what she was— The few left who know where to find her— She clings, for they are all she has; And she may smile when they remind her, As heretofore, of what they know Of roses that are still to blow By ways where not so much as grass Remains of what she sees behind her.
They stay a while, and having done What penance or the past requires, They go, and leave her there alone To count her chimneys and her spires. Her lip shakes when they go away, And yet she would not have them stay; She knows as well as anyone That Pity, having played, soon tires.
But one friend always reappears, A good ghost, not to be forsaken; Whereat she laughs and has no fears Of what a ghost may reawaken, But welcomes, while she wears and mends The poor relation's odds and ends, Her truant from a tomb of years— Her power of youth so early taken.
Poor laugh, more slender than her song It seems; and there are none to hear it With even the stopped ears of the strong For breaking heart or broken spirit. The friends who clamored for her place, And would have scratched her for her face, Have lost her laughter for so long That none would care enough to fear it.
None live who need fear anything From her, whose losses are their pleasure; The plover with a wounded wing Stays not the flight that others measure; So there she waits, and while she lives, And death forgets, and faith forgives, Her memories go foraging For bits of childhood song they treasure.
And like a giant harp that hums On always, and is always blending The coming of what never comes With what has past and had an ending, The City trembles, throbs, and pounds Outside, and through a thousand sounds The small intolerable drums Of Time are like slow drops descending.
Bereft enough to shame a sage And given little to long sighing, With no illusion to assuage The lonely changelessness of dying,— Unsought, unthought-of, and unheard, She sings and watches like a bird, Safe in a comfortable cage From which there will be no more flying.
# The man against the sky; a book of poems/The Voice of Age

THE VOICE OF AGE
She'd look upon us, if she could, As hard as Rhadamanthus would; Yet one may see,—who sees her face, Her crown of silver and of lace, Her mystical serene address Of age alloyed with loveliness,— That she would not annihilate The frailest of things animate.
She has opinions of our ways, And if we're not all mad, she says,— If our ways are not wholly worse Than others, for not being hers,— There might somehow be found a few Less insane things for us to do, And we might have a little heed Of what Belshazzar couldn't read.
She feels, with all our furniture, Room yet for something more secure Than our self-kindled aureoles To guide our poor forgotten souls; But when we have explained that grace Dwells now in doing for the race, She nods—as if she were relieved; Almost as if she were deceived.
She frowns at much of what she hears, And shakes her head, and has her fears; Though none may know, by any chance, What rose-leaf ashes of romance Are faintly stirred by later days That would be well enough, she says, If only people were more wise, And grown-up children used their eyes.