Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/199

Rh And, since we find you walk afoot, We'll soundly souse your frieze surtout. 'Tis but by our peculiar grace, That Phœbus ever shows his face: For, when we please, we open wide Our curtains blue from side to side; And then how saucily he shows His brazen face and fiery nose; And gives himself a haughty air, As if he made the weather fair! 'Tis sung, wherever Cælia treads, The violets ope their purple heads; The roses blow, the cowslip springs; 'Tis sung; but we know better things. 'Tis true, a woman on her mettle Will often piss upon a nettle; But, though we own she makes it wetter, The nettle never thrives the better; While we, by soft prolifick showers, Can every spring produce you flowers. Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning, Compare her radiant eyes to lightning; And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd, That lightning comes but from a cloud. But gods like us have too much sense At poets flights to take offence: Nor can hyperboles demean us; Each drab has been compar'd to Venus. We own your verses are melodious; But such comparisons are odious. A VIN-