Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/229

 He'd treat with nothing that was rare, But winding walks and purer air; Would entertain without expense, Or pride or vain magnificence: For well he knew, to such a guest The plainest meals must be the best. To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare Simplicity alone is rare; While high, and nice, and curious meats Are really but vulgar treats. Instead of spoils of Persian looms, The costly boasts of regal rooms, Thought it more courtly and discreet To scatter roses at her feet; Roses of richest die, that shone With native lustre, like her own: Beauty that needs no aid of art Through every sense to reach the heart. The gracious dame, though well she knew All this was much beneath her due, Lik'd every thing — at least thought fit To praise it par manière d'acquit. Yet she, though seeming pleas'd, can't bear The scorching sun, or chilling air; Disturb'd alike at both extremes, Whether he shows or hides his beams: Though seeming pleas'd at all she sees, Starts at the ruffling of the trees; And scarce can speak for want of breath, In half a walk fatigued to death. The doctor takes his hint from hence, T' apologize his late offence: "Madam, the mighty power of use Now strangely pleads in my excuse: "If