Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/428



THOUGH A talks, by fits, Of councils, classicks, fathers, wits; Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke: Yet in some things, methinks, she fails; 'Twere well, if she would pare her nails, And wear a cleaner smock.

Haughty and huge as High Dutch bride; Such nastiness, and so much pride, Are oddly join'd by fate: On her large squab you find her spread, Like a fate corpse upon a bed, That lies and stinks in state.

She wears no colours (sign of grace) On any part except her face; All white and black beside: Dauntless her look, her gesture proud, Her voice theatrically loud, And masculine her stride.

So have I seen, in black and white, A prating thing, a magpie hight, Majestically stalk; A stately, worthless animal, That plies the tongue, and wags the tail, All flutter, pride, and talk. PHRYNE.