Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the beam
  Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write! 
  As erst the bard by Mulla’s silver stream,
  Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight,
  Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite. 
  For brandishing the rod, she doth begin
  To loose the brogues, the stripling’s late delight! 
  And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,
  Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.

  O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
  His little sister doth his peril see: 
  All playful as she sate, she grows demure;
  She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee;
  She meditates a prayer to set him free: 
  Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny,
  (If gentle pardon could with dames agree)
  To her sad grief that swells in either eye,
  And wrings her so that all for pity she could die.

  The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay,
  Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: 
  By turns, astonied, every twig survey,
  And, from their fellow’s hateful wounds, beware;
  Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share;
  Till fear has taught them a performance meet,
  And to the well-known chest the dame repairs;
  Whence oft with sugared cates she doth ’em greet,
  And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet!

* * * * *

  Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear! 
  Even now sagacious foresight points to show
  A little bench of heedless bishops here,
  And there a chancellor in embryo,
  Or bard sublime, if bard may e’er be so,
  As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne’er shall die! 
  Though now he crawl along the ground so low,
  Nor weeting how the muse should soar on high,
  Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly.

  WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY

  To thee, fair freedom!  I retire
  From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
  Nor art thou found in mansions higher
  Than the low cot, or humble inn.

  ’Tis here with boundless power I reign;
  And every health which I begin,
  Converts dull port to bright champagne;
  Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.

  I fly from pomp, I fly from plate! 
  I fly from falsehood’s specious grin! 
  Freedom I love, and form I hate,
  And choose my lodgings at an inn.

  Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
  Which lacqueys else might hope to win;
  It buys, what courts have not in store;
  It buys me freedom, at an inn.

  Whoe’er has travelled life’s dull round,
  Where’er his stages may have been,
  May sigh to think he still has found
  The warmest welcome at an inn.

JONATHAN SWIFT

  FROM THE BEASTS’ CONFESSION