Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 18.djvu/456



EAF, giddy, helpless, left alone.

Except the first, the fault's your own.

To all my friends a burden grown.

Because to few you will be shown. Give them good wine, and meat to stuff, You may have company enough.

No more I hear my church's bell, Than if it rang out for my knell.

Then write and read, 'twill do as well.

At thunder now no more I start, Than at the rumbling of a cart.

Think then of thunder when you f—t.

Nay, what's incredible, alack! No more I hear a woman's clack.

A woman's clack, if I have skill, Sounds somewhat like a throwster's mill; But louder than a bell, or thunder; That does, I own, increase my wonder. 4