Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/75

 With snuff was fill'd his ebon box, Of shin-bones rotted by the pox. Nine spirits of blaspheming fops, With aconite anoint his chops; And give him words of dreadful sounds, G—d d—n his blood! and b—d and w—ds! Thus furnish'd out, he sent his train To take a house in Warwick lane: The faculty, his humble friends, A complimental message sends: Their president in scarlet gown Harangued, and welcom'd him to town. But Death had business to dispatch; His mind was running on his match. And, hearing much of Daphne's fame, His majesty of terrours came, Fine as a colonel of the guards, To visit where she sate at cards: She, as he came into the room, Thought him Adonis in his bloom. And now her heart with pleasure jumps; She scarce remembers what is trumps; For such a shape of skin and bone Was never seen, except her own: Charm'd with his eyes, and chin, and snout, Her pocket glass drew slily out; And grew enamour'd with her phiz, As just the counterpart of his. She darted many a private glance, And freely made the first advance; Was of her beauty grown so vain, She doubted not to win the swain. Nothing she thought could sooner gain him, Than with her wit to entertain him.