OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 7/Ballad

BALLAD.
TO THE TUNE OF "SALLEY IN OUR ALLEY."
1.
Of all the twice ten thousand bards That ever penned a canto, Whom Pudding or whom Praise rewards For lining a portmanteau; Of all the poets ever known, From Grub-street to Fop's Alley, The Muse may boast—the World must own There 's none like pretty Gally!
2.
He writes as well as any Miss, Has published many a poem; ​The shame is yours, the gain is his, In case you should not know 'em: He has ten thousand pounds a year— I do not mean to vally— His songs at sixpence would be dear, So give them gratis, Gally!
3.
And if this statement should seem queer, Or set down in a hurry, Go, ask (if he will be sincere) His bookseller—John Murray. Come, say, how many have been sold, And don't stand shilly-shally, Of bound and lettered, red and gold, Well printed works of Gally.
4.
For Astley's circus Upton writes, And also for the Surry; (sic) Fitzgerald weekly still recites, Though grinning Critics worry: Miss Holford's Peg, and Sotheby's Saul, In fame exactly tally; From Stationer's Hall to Grocer's Stall They go—and so does Gally.
5.
He rode upon a Camel's hump Through Araby the sandy, Which surely must have hurt the rump Of this poetic dandy. His rhymes are of the costive kind, And barren as each valley In deserts which he left behind Has been the Muse of Gally.
6.
He has a Seat in Parliament, Is fat and passing healthy; And surely he should be content With these and being wealthy: But Great Ambition will misrule Men at all risks to sally,— Now makes a poet—now a fool, And we know which—of Gally.
7.
Some in the playhouse like to row, Some with the Watch to battle, Exchanging many a midnight blow To Music of the Rattle. Some folks like rowing on the Thames, Some rowing in an Alley, But all the Row my fancy claims Is rowing of my Gally.
April 11, 1818.
* ↑ [For Fop's Alley, see Poetical Works, 1898, i. 410, note 2.]
* ↑ [H. Gally Knight (1786-1846) was at Cambridge with Byron.]
* ↑ [William Upton was the author of Poems on Several Occasions, 1788, and of the Words of the most Favourite Songs, Duets, etc., sung at the Royal Amphitheatre, Westminster Bridge, etc. In the dedication to Mrs. Astley he speaks of himself as the author of the Black Castle, Fair Rosamond, etc. He has also been credited with the words of James Hook's famous song, A Lass of Richmond Hill, but this has been disputed. (See Notes and Queries, 1878, Series V. vol. ix. p. 495.)]
* ↑ [Compare— "Th' unloaded camel, pacing slow, Crops the rough herbage or the tamarisk spray." Alashtar (by H. G. Knight), 1817, Canto I. stanza viii. lines 5, 6.]
* ↑ [From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray, now for the first time printed. For stanzas 2 (lines 5-8), 3, 4, 6, 7, see Letters, 1900, iv. 219, 220. For stanzas 1, 2, 3 of "Another Simple Ballat. To the tune of Tally i.o. the Grinder" (probably a variant of Dibdin's song, "The Grinders, or more Grist to the Mill"), vide ibid., pp. 220, 221.]
# The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 7/Bowles and Campbell

BOWLES AND CAMPBELL.
To the air of "How now, Madam Flirt," in the Beggar's Opera.
Bowles.
"Why, how now, saucy Tom? If you thus must ramble, ​I will publish some Remarks on Mister Campbell. Saucy Tom!"
Campbell.
"Why, how now, Billy Bowles? Sure the priest is maudlin! (To the public) How can you, d—n your souls! Listen to his twaddling? Billy Bowles!"
February 22, 1821. [First published, The Liberal, 1823, No. II. p. 398.]
# The Works of Virgil (Dryden)/Pastorals (Dryden)

* The First Pastoral, or TITYRUS and MELIBŒUS.
* The Second Pastoral, or ALEXIS.
* The Third Pastoral, or PALAEMON.
* The Fourth Pastoral, or POLLIO.
* The Fifth Pastoral, or DAPHNIS.
* The Sixth Pastoral, or SILENUS.
* The Seventh Pastoral, or MELIBOEUS.
* The Eighth Pastoral, or PHARMACEUTRIA.
* The Ninth Pastoral, or LYCIDAS and MOERIS.
* The Tenth Pastoral, or GALLUS.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Verses Written on a Window at the Deanery

VERSES, WRITTEN ON A WINDOW,
AT THE DEANERY HOUSE, ST. PATRICK'S.
ARE the guests of this house still doom'd to be cheated? Sure, the Fates have decreed they by halves should be treated. In the days of good John, if you came here to dine, You had choice of good meat, but no choice of good wine. In Jonathan's reign, if you come here to eat, You have choice of good wine, but no choice of good meat. O Jove! then how fully might all sides be blest, Would'st thou but agree to this humble request! Put both deans in one; or, if that's too much trouble, Instead of the deans, make the deanery double.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Verses on the Upright Judge Who Condemned the Drapier's Printer – 1

VERSES ON THE UPRIGHT JUDGE,
WHO CONDEMNED THE DRAPIER'S PRINTER.
THE church I hate, and have good reason; For there my grandsire cut his weasand: He cut his weasand at the altar; I keep my gullet for the halter.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Verses on the Upright Judge Who Condemned the Drapier's Printer – 3

ON THE SAME.
(the judge speaks.)
I'M not the grandson of that ass Quin; Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin. My grand dame had gallants by twenties, And bore my mother by a 'prentice. This when my grandsire knew, they tell us he In Christ church cut his throat for jealousy. And, since the alderman was mad you say, Then I must be so too, ex traduce.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Whitshed's Motto on his Coach

WHITSHED'S MOTTO ON HIS COACH.
1724.
LIBERTAS et natale solum: Fine words! I wonder where you stole 'em. Could nothing but thy chief reproach Serve for a motto on thy coach? But let me now the words translate: Natale solum, my estate; My dear estate, how well I love it! My tenants, if you doubt, will prove it, They swear I am so kind and good, I hug them, till I squeeze their blood. Libertas bears a large import: First, how to swagger in a court; ​And, secondly, to show my fury Against an uncomplying jury; And, thirdly, 'tis a new invention, To favour Wood, and keep my pension; And, fourthly, 'tis to play an odd trick, Get the great seal, and turn out Broderick; And, fifthly, (you know whom I mean) To humble that vexatious dean; And, sixthly, for my soul, to barter it For fifty times its worth to Carteret. Now, since your motto thus you construe, I must confess you've spoken once true. Libertas et natale solum: You had good reason, when you stole 'em.
* ↑ The chief justice who prosecuted the Drapier.
* ↑ Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Will Wood's Petition

This is the fifth of seven poems about William Wood’s proposal for Ireland: 1. Epigram on Wood's Brass Money; 2. A Simile on our Want of Silver; 3. Wood an Insect; 4. On Wood the Ironmonger; 5. Will Wood's Petition; 6. A new Song on Wood's Halfpence; and 7. A serious Poem upon Will Wood.
WILL WOOD'S PETITION TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND.
BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG, SUPPOSED TO BE MADE AND SUNG IN THE STREETS OF DUBLIN,
BY WILLIAM WOOD,
IRONMONGER AND HALFPENNYMONGER.
1725.
MY dear Irish folks, Come leave off your jokes, And buy up my halfpence so fine; So fair and so bright, They'll give you delight; Observe how they glisten and shine! ​They'll sell, to my grief, As cheap as neckbeef, For counters at cards to your wife: And every day Your children may play Spanfarthing, or toss on the knife.
Come hither, and try; I'll teach you to buy A pot of good ale for a farthing: Come; threepence a score, I ask you no more, And a fig for the Drapier and Harding.
When tradesmen have gold, The thief will be bold, By day and by night for to rob him: My copper is such, No robber will touch, And so you may daintily bob him.
The little blackguard, Who gets very hard His halfpence for cleaning your shoes: When his pockets are cramm'd With mine and be d—'d, He may swear he has nothing to lose.
Here's halfpence in plenty, For one you'll have twenty, Though thousands are not worth a pudden. Your neighbours will think. When your pocket cries chink, You are grown plaguy rich on a sudden. ​You will be my thankers, I'll make you my bankers, As good as Ben Burton or Fade: For nothing shall pass But my pretty brass, And then you'll be all of a trade.
I'm a son of a whore If I have a word more To say in this wretched condition. If my coin will not pass, I must die like an ass; And so I conclude my petition.
* ↑ The Drapier's printer.
* ↑ Two famous bankers.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Written in a Lady's Ivory Tablebook

written in a lady's ivory tablebook,
1699.
PERUSE my leaves through every part, And think thou seest my owner's heart, Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite As hard, as senseless, and as light; Expos'd to every coxcomb's eyes, But hid with caution from the wise. Here you may read, "Dear charming saint!" Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:" Here, in beau-spelling, "True tel deth;" There, in her own, "For an el breth:" Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!" There, "A safe way to use perfume:" Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux; On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes" — "Madam, I die without your grace" — "Item, for half a yard of lace." Who that had wit would place it here, For every peeping fop to jeer? In power of spittle and a clout, Whene'er he please to blot it out; And then, to heighten the disgrace, Clap his own nonsense in the place. Whoe'er expects to hold his part In such a book, and such a heart, If he be wealthy, and a fool, Is in all points the fittest tool; Of whom it may be justly said, He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Verses by Stella

VERSES BY STELLA.
IF it be true, celestial powers, That you have form'd me fair, And yet, in all my vainest hours, My mind has been my care: Then, in return, I beg this grace, As you were ever kind, What envious Time takes from my face, Bestow upon my mind!
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Verses on the Upright Judge Who Condemned the Drapier's Printer – 2

ON THE SAME.
IN church your grandsire cut his throat: To do the job, too long he tarry'd: He should have had my hearty vote, To cut his throat before he marry'd.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Wood an Insect

This is the third of seven poems about William Wood’s proposal for Ireland: 1. Epigram on Wood's Brass Money; 2. A Simile on our Want of Silver; 3. Wood an Insect; 4. On Wood the Ironmonger; 5. Will Wood's Petition; 6. A new Song on Wood's Halfpence; and 7. A serious Poem upon Will Wood.
WOOD AN INSECT. 1725.
BY long observation I have understood, That two little vermin are kin to Will Wood. The first is an insect they call a wood-louse, That folds up itself in itself for a house, As round as a ball, without head, without tail, Inclos'd cap à pié in a strong coat of mail. ​And thus William Wood to my fancy appears In fillets of brass roll'd up to his ears; And over these fillets he wisely has thrown, To keep out of danger, a doublet of stone. The louse of the wood for a medicine is us'd, Or swallow'd alive, or skilfully bruis'd. And, let but our mother Hibernia contrive To swallow Will Wood either bruis'd or alive, She need be no more with the jaundice possest, Or sick of obstructions, and pains in her chest. The next is an insect we call a wood-worm, That lies in old wood like a hare in her form; With teeth or with claws it will bite or will scratch, And chambermaids christen this worm a deathwatch; Because like a watch it always cries click; Then woe be to those in the house who are sick: For, as sure as a gun, they will give up the ghost, If the maggot cries click when it scratches the post. But a kettle of scalding hot water injected Infallibly cures the timber affected: The omen is broken, the danger is over; The maggot will die, and the sick will recover. Such a worm was Will Wood, when he scratch’d at the door Of a governing statesman or favourite whore: The death of our nation he seem'd to foretell, And the sound of his brass we took for our knell. But now, since the Drapier has heartily maul'd him, I think the best thing we can do is to scald him. For which operation there's nothing more proper Than the liquor he deals in, his own melted copper; ​Unless, like the Dutch, you rather would boil This coiner of raps in a cauldron of oil. Then choose which you please, and let each bring a faggot, For our fear's at an end with the death of the maggot.
* ↑ He was in gaol for debt.
* ↑ Counterfeit halfpence.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A Dialogue Between an Eminent Lawyer and Dr. Swift

This poem and the previous poem are in response to the poem, Paulus; an Epigram. By Robert Lindsay.
A DIALOGUE
BETWEEN
AN EMINENT LAWYER,
AND
DR. JONATHAN SWIFT, D. S. P. D.
AN ALLUSION TO HORACE, BOOK II. SAT. I.
"Sunt quibus in Satirâ, &c."
DR. SWIFT.
SINCE there are persons who complain There's too much satire in my vein; That I am often found exceeding The rules of raillery and breeding; ​With too much freedom treat my betters, Not sparing even men of letters: You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore, What's your advice? Shall I give o'er? Nor ever fools or knaves expose Either in verse or humourous prose; And, to avoid all future ill, In my scrutoire lock up my quill?
LAWYER.
Since you are pleas'd to condescend To ask the judgment of a friend, Your case consider'd, I must think You should withdraw from pen and ink, Forbear your poetry and jokes, And live like other Christian folks; Or, if the Muses must inspire Your fancy with their pleasing fire, Take subjects safer for your wit Than those on which you lately writ. Commend the times, your thoughts correct, And follow the prevailing sect; Assert that Hyde, in writing story, Shows all the malice of a tory; While Burnet, in his deathless page, Discovers freedom without rage. To Woolston recommend our youth, For learning, probity, and truth; That noble genius, who unbinds The chains which fetter freeborn minds; Redeems us from the slavish fears Which lasted near two thousand years; He can alone the priesthood humble, Make gilded spires and altars tumble.
DR. SWIFT.
Must I commend against my conscience Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense? To such a subject tune my lyre, And sing like one of Milton's choir, Where devils to a vale retreat, And call the laws of Wisdom Fate, Lament upon their hapless fall, That Force free Virtue should enthrall? Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power Make me pollute the Muses' bower?
LAWYER.
As from the tripod of Apollo, Hear from my desk the words that follow: "Some, by philosophers misled, Must honour you alive and dead; And such as know what Greece has writ, Must taste your irony and wit; While most that are, or would be great, Must dread your pen, your person hate; And you on Drapier's hill must lie, And there without a mitre die."
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A New Year's Gift for Bec

A NEW-YEAR'S-GIFT FOR BEC. 1723-4.
RETURNING Janus now prepares, For Bec, a new supply of cares, Sent in a bag to doctor Swift, Who thus displays the New-year's gift. First, this large parcel brings you tidings Of our good dean's eternal chidings; ​Of Nelly's pertness, Robin's leasings, And Sheridan's perpetual teazings. This box is cramm'd on every side With Stella's magisterial pride. Behold a cage with sparrows fill'd, First to be fondled, then be kill'd. Now to this hamper I invite you, With six imagin'd cares to fright you. Here in this bundle Janus sends Concerns by thousands for your friends: And here's a pair of leathern pokes, To hold your cares for other folks. Here from this barrel you may broach A peck of troubles for a coach. This ball of wax your ears will darken, Still to be curious, never hearken. Lest you the town may have less trouble in, Bring all your Quilca's cares to Dublin, For which he sends this empty sack; And so take all upon your back.
* ↑ Mrs. Rebecca Dingley, Stella's friend and companion.
* ↑ Country house of Dr. Sheridan.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A Left-Handed Letter to Dr. Sheridan

A LEFT-HANDED LETTER
TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1718.
DELANY reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue, That we both act the part of the clown and the cow-dung; We lye cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst, Yet still are no wiser than we were at first. Pudet hæc opprobria, I freely must tell ye, Et dici potuisse, et non potuisse refelli. Though Delany advis'd you to plague me no longer, You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor; I must now, at one sitting, pay off my old score; How many to answer? One, two, three, or four. But, because the three former are long ago past, I shall, for method sake, begin with the last. You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe, Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rising blow. Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field, Would, as he lay under, cry out, sirrah! yield. So the French, when our generals soundly did pay them, Went triumphant to church, and sang stoutly Te Deum. So the famous Tom Leigh, when quite run aground, Comes off by outlaughing the company round. In every vile pamphlet you'll read the same fancies, Having thus overthrown all our farther advances. My offers of peace you ill understood: Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good? ​'Twas to teach you in moderate language your duty; For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t' ye: As a good quiet soul, who no mischief intends To a quarrelsome fellow, cries, Let us be friends. But we like Antæus and Hercules fight, The oftener you fall, the oftener you write; And I'll use you as he did that overgrown clown, I'll first take you up, and then take you down: And, 'tis your own case, for you never can wound The worst dunce in your school, till he's heav'd from the ground.
I beg your pardon for using my left hand, but I was in great haste, and the other hand was employ'd at the same time in writing some letters of business. — I will send you the rest when I have leisure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here last.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A Description of the Morning

A DESCRIPTION of the MORNING.
1709.
NOW hardly here and there a hackney coach Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach. Now Betty from her master's bed had flown, And softly stole to discompose her own; The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dextrous airs, Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs. The youth with broomy stumps began to trace The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place. The smallcoal man was heard with cadence deep, Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimneysweep: Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet; And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half the street. ​The turnkey now his flock returning sees, Duly let out anights to steal for fees: The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A Love Poem from a Physician to His Mistress

A LOVE POEM
FROM A PHYSICIAN TO HIS MISTRESS.
WRITTEN AT LONDON.
BY poets we are well assur'd That love, alas! can ne'er be cur'd: A complicated heap of ills, Despising boluses and pills. ​Ah! Chloe, this I find is true, Since first I gave my heart to you. Now, by your cruelty hard bound, I strain my guts, my colon wound. Now jealousy, my grumbling tripes Assaults with grating, grinding gripes. When pity in those eyes I view, My bowels wambling make me spew. When I an amorous kiss design'd, I belch'd a hurricane of wind. Once you a gentle sigh let fall; Remember how I suck'd it all: What colick pangs from thence I felt, Had you but known, your heart would melt, Like ruffling winds in caverns pent, Till Nature pointed out a vent. How have you torn my heart to pieces With maggots, humours, and caprices! By which I got the hemorrhoids; And loathsome worms my anus voids. Whene'er I hear a rival nam'd, I feel my body all inflam'd; Which, breaking out in boils and blanes, With yellow filth my linen stains; Or, parch'd with unextinguish'd thirst, Smallbeer I guzzle till I burst; And then I drag a bloated corpus, Swell'd with a dropsy, like a porpoise; When, if I cannot purge or stale, I must be tapp'd to fill a pail.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A Motto for Jason Hazard

A MOTTO FOR MR. JASON HASARD,
WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN;
WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE.
JASON, the valiant prince of Greece, From Colchos brought the Golden Fleece: We comb the wool, refine the stuff, For modern Jasons, that's enough. O! could we tame yon watchful dragon, Old Jason would have less to brag on.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/A Pastoral Dialogue between Dermot and Sheelah

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728.
DERMOT, SHEELAH.
Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight; While each with stubbed knife remov’d the roots, That rais'd between the stones their daily shoots; As at their work they sate in counterview, With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew. Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly-flowing strain The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.
DERMOT.
My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt, Than strongest weeds that grow these stones betwixt: My spud these nettles from the stones can part; No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart,
SHEELAH.
My love for gentle Dermot faster grows, Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose. Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O! Love rooted out, again will never grow.
DERMOT.
No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake: (I spare the thistles for sir Arthur's sake) Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat; The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.
SHEELAH.
Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide; This petticoat shall save thy dear backside; Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet, Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat.
DERMOT.
At an old stubborn root I chanc'd to tug, When the dean threw me this tobacco-plug: A longer ha'p'orth never did I see; This, dearest Sheelah, thou shalt share with me.
SHEELAH.
In at the pantry door this morn I slipt, And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt: Dennis was out, and I got hither safe; And thou, my dear, shalt have the bigger half.
DERMOT.
When you saw Tady at long bullets play, You sate and lous'd him all a sunshine day: ​How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales, Or crack such lice as his between your nails?
SHEELAH.
When you with Oonah stood behind a ditch, I peep'd, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch: Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts? I almost wish'd this spud were in your guts.
DERMOT.
If Oonah once I kiss'd, forbear to chide; Her aunt's my gossip by my father's side: But, if I ever touch her lips again, May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain!
SHEELAH.
Dermot, I swear, though Tady's locks could hold Ten thousand lice, and every louse was gold; Him on my lap you never more shall see; Or may I lose my weeding-knife — and thee!
DERMOT.
O, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass, A pair of brogues to bear thee dry to mass! But see, where Norah with the sowins comes — Then let us rise, and rest our weary bums.
* ↑ Sir Arthur Acheson.
* ↑ Who was a great lover of Scotland.
* ↑ Halfpennyworth.
* ↑ Sir Arthur's butler.
* ↑ Shoes with flat low heels.
* ↑ A sort of flummery.
# The incarnation, birth, and infancy of Jesus Christ/Notice

​St. Alphonsus wrote the following little work in 1750; but bis infirmities and his many duties did not permit him to publish it till the year 1758.
By a Novena we mean the nine days that precede a feast; the first day of the novena of Christmas is, therefore, the 16th of December.
These discourses may serve either for meditation or for spiritual reading. After the discourses will be found novenas of meditations and of prayers. There is also added a list of the indulgences attached to this exercise. - ED.
# The incidents of love

The incidents of love Are more than its Events — Investment's best Expositor Is the minute Per Cents —