Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/315

Rh The poorest hither march in state (Or they can never pass the gate) Like Roman generals triumphant, And then they take a turn and jump on't. If gravest parsons here advance, They cannot pass before they dance; There's not a soul that does resort here, But strips himself to pay the porter.

are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in glass is set, One of us you'll find in jet. T'other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within. If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you.

Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin, No lady alive can show such a skin. I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather, But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together. Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear, Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare. Though so much of Heaven appears in my make, The foulest impressions I easily take. My parent and I produce one another, The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother. XXII.