Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/404

392 We hate your empty prattle; And vow and swear 'tis true, There's more in one child's rattle. Than twenty fops like you.

, how now dapper Black, I smell your gown and cassock, As strong upon your back, As Tisdal smells of a sock. To write such scurvy stuff! Fine ladies never do't; I know you well enough, And eke your cloven foot. Fine ladies, when they write, Nor scold, nor keep a splutter: Their verses give delight, As soft and sweet as butter. But Satan never saw Such haggard lines as these: They stick athwart my maw, As bad as Suffolk cheese. THE