Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/241

Rh They left me in the lurch: Unhappy wretch! for now, I ween, I’ve nothing left to vent my spleen But ferula and birch: And they, alas! yield small relief, Seem rather to renew my grief, My wounds bleed all anew: For every stroke goes to my heart, And at each lash I feel the smart Of lash laid on by you.

DEAR DAN,

ERE I return my trust, nor ask, One penny for remittance; If I have well perform’d my task, Pray send me an acquittance. Too long I bore this weighty pack, As Hercules the sky; Now take him you, Dan Atlas, back, Let me be stander-by. Not all the witty things you speak In compass of a day, Not half the puns you make a week, Should bribe his longer stay. Rh