Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/170

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N 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.

TELLA this day is thirty-four, (We sha'n't dispute a year or more) However, Stella, be not troubled, Although thy size and years are doubled, Since