Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/399

Rh

My love for gentle Dermot faster grows, Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose. Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O! Love rooted out, again will never grow.

No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake: (I spare the thistles for sir Arthur's sake) Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat; The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.

Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide; This petticoat shall save thy dear backside; Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet, Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat.

At an old stubborn root I chanc'd to tug, When the dean threw me this tobacco-plug: A longer ha'p'orth never did I see; This, dearest Sheelah, thou shalt share with me.

In at the pantry door this morn I slipt, And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt: Dennis was out, and I got hither safe; And thou, my dear, shalt have the bigger half.

When you saw Tady at long bullets play, You sate and lous'd him all a sunshine day: Rh