Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/401



ladies, number five, Who, in your merry freaks, With little Tom contrive To feast on ale and steaks; While he sits by a grinning, To see you safe in Sot's hole, Set up with greasy linen, And neither mugs nor pots whole; Alas! I never thought, A priest would please your palate; Besides, I'll hold a groat, He'll put you in a ballad; Where I shall see your faces On paper daub'd so foul, They'll be no more like Graces, Than Venus like an owl. And we shall take you rather To be a midnight pack Of witches met together, With Beelzebub in black. Rh