OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/To George-Nim-Dan-Dean, Esq. – (Delany)

This is the fifth of seven poems on the same subject: 1. The Country Life; 2. Thomas Sheridan, Clerk, to George-Nim-Dan-Dean, Esq.; 3. George-Nim-Dan-Dean's Answer; 4. George-Nim-Dan-Dean's Invitation to Thomas Sheridan; 5. Verses by Dr. Delany; 6. Verses by Dr. Swift to Mr. T. Sheridan; and 7. On Dr. Sheridan's circular Verses.
TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.
UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE VERSES, &c.
BY DR. DELANY, IN SHERIDAN'S NAME.
HAIL, human compound quadrifarious, Invincible as wight Briareus! Hail! doubly-doubled mighty merry one, Stronger than triple-body'd Geryon! O may your vastness deign t'excuse The praises of a puny Muse. Unable, in her utmost flight, To reach thy huge colossian height. T' atempt to write like thee were frantick, Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantick. Yet let me bless, in humbler strain, Thy vast, thy bold Cambysian vein, Pour'd out t' enrich thy native isle, As Egypt wont to be with Nile. O, how I joy to see thee wander, In many a winding loose meander, In circling mazes, smooth and supple, And ending in a clink quadruple; Loud, yet agreeable withal, Like rivers rattling in their fall! Thine, sure, is poetry divine, Where wit and majesty combine; Where every line, as huge as seven, If stretch'd in length, would reach to Heaven: Here all comparing would be slandering, The least is more than Alexandrine. ​Against thy verse Time sees with pain, He whets his envious sithe in vain; For, though from thee he much may pare, Yet much thou still wilt have to spare. Thou hast alone the skill to feast With Roman elegance of taste, Who hast of rhymes as vast resources As Pompey's caterer of courses. O thou, of all the Nine inspir'd! My languid soul, with teaching tir'd, How is it raptur'd, when it thinks On thy harmonious set of clinks; Each answering each in various rhymes, Like Echo to St. Patrick's chimes! Thy Muse, majestick in her rage, Moves like Statira on the stage; And scarcely can one page sustain The length of such a flowing train: Her train, of variegated die, Shows like Thaumantia's in the sky; Alike they glow, alike they please, Alike imprest by Phœbus' rays. Thy verse — (Ye Gods! I cannot bear it) To what, to what shall I compare it? 'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on, The famous statue of Laocoon. 'Tis like, — O yes, 'tis very like it, The long, long string, with which you fly kite. 'Tis like what you, and one or two more, Roar to your Echo in good humour; And every couplet thou hast writ Concludes like Rattah-whittah-whit.
* ↑ These were written all in circles.
* ↑ At Gaulstown, there is a remarkably famous echo.
* ↑ An allusion to the sound produced by the echo.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/To Janus on New-Year's Day

TO JANUS, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY.
1726
TWO-fac'd Janus, god of Time! Be my Phœbus while I rhime; To oblige your crony Swift, Bring our dame a new year's gift: She has got but half a face; Janus, since thou hast a brace, To my lady once be kind; Give her half thy face behind. God of Time, if you be wise, Look not with your future eyes; What imports thy forward sight? Well, if you could lose it quite. Can you take delight in viewing This poor Isle's approaching ruin, When thy retrospection vast Sees the glorious ages past? Happy nation, were we blind, Or had only eyes behind! Drown your morals, madam cries, I'll have none but forward eyes; Prudes decay'd about may tack, Strain their necks with looking back. Give me Time when coming on: Who regards him when he's gone? By the dean though gravely told, New years help to make me old; Yet I find a new year's lace Burnishes an old year's face: Give me velvet and quadrille, I'll have youth and beauty still.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/To Mr. Thomas Sheridan Upon His Verses Written in Circles

This is the sixth of seven poems on the same subject: 1. The Country Life; 2. Thomas Sheridan, Clerk, to George-Nim-Dan-Dean, Esq.; 3. George-Nim-Dan-Dean's Answer; 4. George-Nim-Dan-Dean's Invitation to Thomas Sheridan; 5. Verses by Dr. Delany; 6. Verses by Dr. Swift to Mr. T. Sheridan; and 7. On Dr. Sheridan's circular Verses.
TO MR. THOMAS SHERIDAN.
UPON HIS VERSES WRITTEN IN CIRCLES.
BY DR. SWIFT.
IT never was known that circular letters, By humble companions, were sent to their betters: And, as to the subject, our judgment, meherc'le, Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle. But now for your verses; we tell you, imprimis, The segment so large 'twixt your reason and rhyme is, That we walk all about, like a horse in a pound, And, before we find either, our noddles turn round, Sufficient it were, one would think, in your mad rant, To give us your measures of line by a quadrant, But we took our dividers, and found your d—n'd metre, In each single verse, took up a diameter. But how, Mr. Sheridan, came you to venture George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, to place in the centre? 'Twill appear, to your cost, you are fairly trepann'd, For the chord of your circle is now in their hand. The chord, or the radius, it matters not whether, By which your jade Pegasus, fixt in a tether, As her betters are us'd, shall be lash'd round the ring, Three fellows with whips, and the dean holds the string. Will Hancock declares, you are out of your compass, To encroach on his art by writing of bombast; ​And has taken just now a firm resolution To answer your style without circumlocution. Lady Betty presents you her service most humble, And is not afraid your worship will grumble, That she makes of your verses a hoop for miss Tam, Which is all at present; and so I remain —
* ↑ Their figures were in the centre of the verses.
* ↑ The lady of George Rochfort, esq.
* ↑ Miss Thomason, lady Betty's daughter.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/To Mrs. Houghton of Beaumont

TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BOURMONT.
Upon praising her Husband to Dr. Swift.
YOU always are making a God of your Spouse; But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, And you adore him, because he adores you. Your argument's weak, and so you will find; For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/To George-Nim-Dan-Dean, Esq. - (Sheridan)

This is the second of five poems on the same subject: 1. The Country Life; 2. Thomas Sheridan, Clerk, to George-Nim-Dan-Dean, Esq; 3. George-Nim-Dan-Dean's Answer; 4. George-Nim-Dan-Dean's Invitation to Thomas Sheridan; and 5. Verses by Dr. Delany.
THOMAS SHERIDAN, CLERK,
TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, ESQ.
July 15, 1721, at night.
I'D have you t'know, George, Dan, Dean, and Nim, That I've learned how verse t'compose trim, ​Much better b' half th'n you, n'r you, n'r him, And that I'd rid'cule their 'nd your flam-flim, Ay b't then, p'rhaps, says you, t's a merry whim With 'bundance of mark'd notes i' th' rim, So th't I ought n't for t' be morose 'nd t' look grim, Think n't your 'p'stle put m' in a megrim; Though 'n rep't't'on day, I 'ppear ver' slim, Th' last bowl 't Helsham's did m' head t' swim, So th't I h'd man' aches 'n 'v'ry scruhb'd limb, Cause th' top of th' bowl Ih'd oft us'd t' skim; And b'sides D'lan' swears th't Ih'd swall'w'd s'v'r'l brim- mers, 'nd that my vis'ge's cov'r'd o'er with r'd pim- ples: m'r'o'er though m' scull were ('s 'tis n't) 's strong's tim- ber, 't must have ak'd. Th' clans of th' c'llege Sanh'drim,
* ↑ Geo. Rochfort.
* ↑ Mr. Jackson.
* ↑ Dr. Swift.
* ↑ Mr. J. Rochfort.
* ↑ Dr. James Stopford, afterward bishop of Cloyne.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/To Lord Harley on his Marriage

To LORD HARLEY, on his MARRIAGE,
1713.
AMONG the numbers who employ Their tongues and pens to give you joy, Dear Harley! generous youth, admit What friendship dictates more than wit. Forgive me, when I fondly thought (By frequent observations taught) ​A spirit so inform'd as yours Could never prosper in amours. The God of Wit, and Light, and Arts, With all acquir'd and natural parts, Whose harp could savage beasts enchant, Was an unfortunate gallant. Had Bacchus after Daphne reel'd, The nymph had soon been brought to yield: Or, had embroider'd Mars pursued, The nymph would ne'er have been a prude. Ten thousand footsteps, full in view, Mark out the way where Daphne flew: For such is all the sex's flight, They fly from learning, wit, and light: They fly, and none can overtake But some gay coxcomb, or a rake. How then, dear Harley, could I guess That you should meet, in love, success? For, if those ancient tales be true, Phœbus was beautiful as you: Yet Daphne never slack'd her pace, For wit and learning spoil'd his face. And, since the same resemblance held In gifts wherein you both excell'd, I fancy'd every nymph would run From you, as from Latona's son. Then where, said I, shall Harley find A virgin of superiour mind, With wit and virtue to discover, And pay the merit of her lover? This character shall Ca'endish claim, Born to retrieve her sex's fame. The chief among the glittering crowd, Of titles, birth, and fortune proud, ​(As fools are insolent and vain) Madly aspir'd to wear her chain: But Pallas, guardian of the maid, Descending to her charge's aid, Held out Medusa's snaky locks, Which stupify'd them all to stocks. The nymph with indignation view'd The dull, the noisy, and the lewd: For Pallas, with celestial light, Had purify'd her mortal sight; Show'd her the virtues all combin'd, Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind. Terrestrial nymphs, by former arts, Display their various nets for hearts: Their looks are all by method set, When to be prude, and when coquette; Yet, wanting skill and power to choose, Their only pride is to refuse. But, when a goddess would bestow Her love on some bright youth below, Round all the earth she casts her eyes; And then, descending from the skies, Makes choice of him she fancies best, And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd. Thus the bright Empress of the Morn Chose, for her spouse, a mortal born: The goddess made advances first; Else what aspiring hero durst? Though, like a virgin of fifteen, She blushes when by mortals seen; Still blushes, and with speed retires, When Sol pursues her with his fires. Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen, Struck with Endymion's graceful mien, ​Down from her silver chariot came, And to the shepherd own'd her flame. Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright, And chaster than the Queen of Night, Descended from her sphere to find A mortal of superiour kind.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/To Quilca

TO QUILCA,
A COUNTRY HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN,
IN NO VERY GOOD REPAIR, 1725.
LET me thy properties explain: A rotten cabin dropping rain; Chimnies with scorn rejecting smoke; Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke. Here elements have lost their uses, Air ripens not, nor earth produces; ​In vain we make poor Sheelah toil, Fire will not roast, nor water boil. Through all the valleys, hills, and plains, The goddess Want in triumph reigns: And her chief officers of state, Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.
THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE. 1725.
Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters; Nor seen by our betters.
THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
A companion with news; a great want of shoes; Eat lean meat, or choose; a church without pews. Our horses astray; no straw, oats, or hay; December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/To Love

TO LOVE.
IN all I wish, how happy should I be, Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee! So weak thou art, that fools thy power despise; And yet so strong, thou triumph'st o'er the wise. Thy traps are laid with such peculiar art, They catch the cautious, let the rash depart. Most nets are fill'd by want of thought and care: But too much thinking brings us to thy snare; Where, held by thee, in slavery we stay, And throw the pleasing part of life away. But, what does most my indignation move, Discretion! thou wert ne'er a friend to Love: Thy chief delight is to defeat those arts, By which he kindles mutual flames in hearts; While the blind loitering God is at his play, Thou steal'st his golden pointed darts away: Those darts which never fail; and in their stead Convey'st malignant arrows tipt with lead: The heedless God, suspecting no deceits, Shoots on, and thinks he has done wondrous feats; But the poor nymph, who feels her vitals burn, And from her shepherd can find no return, Laments, and rages at the power divine, When, curst Discretion! all the fault was thine: Cupid and Hymen thou hast set at odds, And bred such feuds between those kindred gods, That Venus cannot reconcile her sons; When one appears, away the other runs. ​The former scales, wherein he us'd to poise Love against love, and equal joys with joys, Are now fill'd up with avarice and pride, Where titles, power, and riches, still subside. Then, gentle Venus, to thy father run, And tell him, how thy children are undone; Prepare his bolts to give one fatal blow. And strike Discretion to the shades below.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Dean's Answer to The Rebus

This poem is a response to the previous poem, A Rebus, by Vanessa.
THE DEAN'S ANSWER.
THE nymph who wrote this in an amorous fit, I cannot but envy the pride of her wit, Which thus she will venture profusely to throw On so mean a design, and a subject so low. For mean's her design, and her subject as mean, The first but a rebus, the last but a dean. A dean's but a parson: and what is a rebus? A thing never known to the Muses or Phœbus. The corruption of verse; for, when all is done, It is but a paraphrase made on a pun. But a genius like her's no subject can stifle, It shows and discovers itself through a trifle. By reading this trifle, I quickly began To find her a great wit, but the dean a small man. Rich ladies will furnish their garrets with stuff, Which others for mantuas would think fine enough: So the wit that is lavishly thrown away here, Might furnish a second-rate poet a year. Thus much for the verse, we proceed to the next, Where the nymph has entirely forsaken her text: Her fine panegyricks are quite out of season, And what she describes to be merit, is treason: The changes which faction has made in the state, Have put the dean's politicks quite out of date: Now no one regards what he utters with freedom, And, should he write pamphlets, no great man would read 'em; And should want or desert stand in need of his aid, This racer would prove but a dull founder'd jade.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Description of a Salamander

THE DESCRIPTION OF A SALAMANDER. 1706.
Pliny, Nat. Hist. lib. x. c. 67. lib. xxix. c. 4.
AS mastiff dogs in modern phrase are Call'd Pompey, Scipio, and Cæsar; As pies and daws are often styl'd With Christian nicknames, like a child; As we say monsieur to an ape, Without offence to human shape; So men have got, from bird and brute, Names that would best their natures suit. The Lion, Eagle, Fox, and Boar, Were heroes titles heretofore, Bestow'd as hieroglyphicks fit To show their valour, strength, or wit: ​For what is understood by fame, Beside the getting of a name? But, e'er since men invented guns, A different way their fancy runs: To paint a hero, we inquire For something that will conquer fire. Would you describe Turenne or Trump? Think of a bucket or a pump. Are these too low? — then find out grander, Call my lord Cutts a Salamander. 'Tis well; — but, since we live among Detractors with an evil tongue, Who may object against the term, Pliny shall prove, what we affirm: Pliny shall prove and we'll apply, And I'll be judg'd by standers by. First, then, our author has defin'd This reptile of the serpent kind, With gaudy coat and shining train; But loathsome spots his body stain: Out from some hole obscure he flies, When rains descend, and tempests rise, Till the sun clears the air; and then Crawls back neglected to his den. So, when the war has rais'd a storm, I've seen a snake in human form, All stain'd with infamy and vice, Leap from the dunghill in a trice, Burnish, and make a gaudy show, Become a general, peer, and beau, Till peace has made the sky serene; Then shrink into its hole again. "All this we grant — why then look yonder. Sure that must be a salamander!" ​Farther, we are by Pliny told, This serpent is extremely cold; So cold, that put it in the fire, 'Twill make the very flames expire: Besides, it spews a filthy froth (Whether through rage or lust, or both) Of matter purulent and white, Which, happening on the skin to light, And there corrupting to a wound, Spreads leprosy and baldness round. So I have seen a batter'd beau, By age and claps grown cold as snow, Whose breath or touch, where'er he came, Blew out love's torch, or chill'd the flame: And should some nymph, who ne'er was cruel, Like Charlton cheap, or fam'd Du-Ruel, Receive the filth which he ejects, She soon would find the same effects, Her tainted carcase to pursue, As from the salamander's spew; A dismal shedding of her locks, And, if no leprosy, a pox. "Then I'll appeal to each by-stander, If this be not a salamander?"
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Dean's Answer to Dr. Sheridan's Poem

This poem is a response to the previous poem, Dr. Sheridan to Dr. Swift.
THE DEAN'S ANSWER.
IN reading your letter alone in my hackney, Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh. And when with much labour the matter I crackt, I found you mistaken in matter of fact. A woman's no sieve (for with that you begin) Because she lets out more than e'er she takes in. And that she's a riddle can never be right, For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light. But, grant her a sieve, I can say something archer; Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher. Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation, What name for a maid, was the first man's damnation? If your worship will please to explain me this rebus, I swear from henceforward you shall be my Phœbus.
From my hackney coach, Sept. 11, 1719, past 12 at noon.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Description of an Irish Feast

THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST,
Translated almost literally out of the Original Irish, in the year 1720.
O'ROURK'S noble fare Will ne'er be forgot, By those who were there, Or those who were not.
His revels to keep, We sup and we dine On seven score sheep, Fat bullocks, and swine.
Usquebaugh to our feast In pails was brought up, A hundred at least, And a madder our cup. ​O there is the sport! We rise with the light In disorderly sort, From snoaring all night.
O how was I trick'd! My pipe it was broke, My pocket was pick'd, I lost my new cloak.
I'm rifled, quoth Nell, Of mantle and kercher: Why then fare them well, The de'el take the searcher.
Come, harper, strike up; But, first, by your favour, Boy, give us a cup: Ah! this hath some savour.
O'Rourk's jolly boys Ne'er dreamt of the matter, 'Till, rous'd by the noise, And musical clatter.
They bounce from their nest, No longer will tarry, They rise ready drest, Without one Ave-Mary.
They dance in a round, Cutting capers and ramping; A mercy the ground Did not burst with their stamping.
The floor is all wet With leaps and with jumps, ​While the water and sweat Splish-splash in their pumps.
Bless you late and early, Laughlin O'Enagin! By my hand, you dance rarely, Margery Grinagin.
Bring straw for our bed, Shake it down to the feet, Then over us spread The winnowing sheet.
To show I don't flinch, Fill the bowl up again; Then give us a pinch Of your sneezing, a Yean.
Good Lord! what a sight, After all their good cheer, For people to fight In the midst of their beer!
They rise from their feast, And hot are their brains, A cubit at least The length of their skeans.
What stabs and what cuts, What clattering of sticks; What strokes on the guts, What bastings and kicks!
With cudgels of oak, Well hardened in flame, ​A hundred heads broke, A hundred struck lame.
You churl, I'll maintain My father built Lusk, The castle of Slane, And Carrick Drumrusk:
The earl of Kildare, And Moynalta his brother, As great as they are, I was nurst by their mother.
Ask that of old madam; She'll tell you who's who, As far up as Adam, She knows it is true.
Come down with that beam, If cudgels are scarce, A blow on the weam, Or a kick on the a—se.
* ↑ A wooden vessels.
* ↑ A covering of linen worn on the heads of the women.
* ↑ The name of an Irish man.
* ↑ An Irish oath.
* ↑ The name of an Irish woman.
* ↑ Surname of an Irish woman.
* ↑ Daggers or short swords.
* ↑ It is the custom in Ireland to call nurses, foster-mothers; their husbands, foster-fathers; and their children, foster-brothers or foster-sisters; and thus the poorest claim kindred to the richest.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Dog and Thief

THE DOG AND THIEF. 1726.
QUOTH the thief to the dog, let me into your door, And I'll give you these delicate bits. Quoth the dog, I shall then be more villain than you're, And besides must be out of my wits.
Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal, But my master each day gives me bread; You'll fly, when you get what you came here to steal, And I must be hang'd in your stead.
The stockjobber thus from 'Change alley goes down, And tips you the freeman a wink; Let me have but your vote to serve for the town, And here is a guinea to drink.
Says the freeman, your guinea tonight would be spent! Your offers of bribery cease: I'll vote for my landlord, to whom I pay rent, Or else I may forfeit my lease. ​From London they come, silly people to chouse, Their lands and their faces unknown: Who'd vote a rogue into the parliament house, That would turn a man out of his own?
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/The Dean's Answer to the Stolen Crown

This poem is a response to the previous poem, Upon stealing a Crown, when the Dean was asleep.
THE DEAN'S ANSWER.
SO, about twelve at night, the punk Steals from the cully when he's drunk; Nor is contented with a treat, Without her privilege to cheat. Nor can I the least difference find, But that you left no clap behind. But, jest apart, restore, you capon ye, My twelve thirteens and sixpence ha'penny. To eat my meat, and drink my medlicot, And then to give me such a deadly cut — But 'tis observ’d, that men in gowns Are most inclin'd to plunder crowns. Could you but change a crown as easy As you can steal one, how 'twould please ye! I thought the lady at St. Catharine's Knew how to set you better patterns; For this I will not dine with Agmondisham And for his victuals let a ragman dish 'em.
* ↑ A shilling passes for thirteen pence in Ireland.
* ↑ Lady Montcashel.
* ↑ Agmondisham Vesey, esq., of Lucan, in the county of Dublin, comptroller and accomptant general of Ireland, a very worthy gentleman, for whom the dean had a great esteem.