Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/338

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I wish, when you prated, your letter you'd dated: Much plague it created. I scolded and rated; My soul is much grated; for your man I long waited. I think you are fated, like a bear to be baited: Your man is belated: the case I have stated; And me you have cheated. My stable's unslated. Come back t' us well freighted. I remember my late head; and wish you translated, For teasing me.

Mrs. Dingley desires me singly Her service to present you; hopes that will content you; But Johnson madam is grown a sad dame, For want of your converse, and cannot send one verse. 3 P. S.