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SWIFT’S POEMS
Take down thy proudly swelling sails,
And rub thy teeth, and pare thy nails:
At nicely carving show thy wit;
But ne'er presume to eat a bit:
Turn every way thy watchful eye,
And every guest be sure to ply:
Let never at your board be known
An empty plate, except your own.
Be these thy arts; nor higher aim
Than what befits a rural dame.
But Cloacina, goddess bright.
Sleek claims her as his right:
And Smedley, flower of all divines,
Shall sing the dean in Smedley's lines.
TWELVE ARTICLES.
I. | Lest it may more quarrels breed, | |
I will never hear you read. | ||
II. | By disputing, I will never, | |
To convince you once endeavour. | ||
III. | When a paradox you stick to, | |
I will never contradict you. | ||
IV. | When I talk, and you are heedless, | |
I will show no anger needless. | ||
V. | When your speeches are absurd, | |
I will ne'er object a word. | ||
VI. | When you furious argue wrong, | |
I will grieve, and hold my tongue. |
VII.