Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/312

 I can bleat, or I can sing, Like the warblers of the spring. Let the lovesick bard complain, And I mourn the cruel pain; Let the happy swain rejoice, And I join my helping voice; Both are welcome, grief or joy, I with either sport and toy. Though a lady, I am stout, Drums and trumpets bring me out: Then I clash, and roar, and rattle, Join in all the din of battle. Jove, with all his loudest thunder, When I'm vext, can't keep me under; Yet so tender is my ear, That the lowest voice I fear; Much I dread the courtier's fate, When his merit's out of date, For I hate a silent breath, And a whisper is my death.

XVI.

something form'd, I nothing am, Yet every thing that you can name; In no place have I ever been, Yet every where I may be seen; In all things false, yet always true, I 'm still the same — but never new.