You thought to make a farce on
  The man and place we chose;
We’re sure a single parson
  Is worth a hundred beaux.

And you would make us vassals,
  Good Mr. Wig and Wings,
To silver clocks and tassels;
  You would, you Thing of Things!

Because around your cane
  A ring of diamonds is set;
And you, in some by-lane,
  Have gain’d a paltry grisette;

Shall we, of sense refined,
  Your trifling nonsense bear,
As noisy as the wind,
  As empty as the air?

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

THE BEAU’S REPLY TO THE FIVE LADIES’ ANSWER

Why, how now, dapper black! 
  I smell your gown and cassock,
As strong upon your back,
  As Tisdall[1] 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.

[Footnote 1:  Dr. William Tisdall, a clergyman in the north of Ireland, who had paid his addresses to Mrs. Johnson.  He is several times mentioned in the Journal to Stella, and is not to be confused with another Tisdall or Tisdell, whom Swift knew in London, also mentioned in the Journal.—­W.  E. B.]

DR. SHERIDAN’S BALLAD ON BALLY-SPELLIN.[1] 1728

All you that would refine your blood,
  As pure as famed Llewellyn,
By waters clear, come every year
  To drink at Ballyspellin.

Though pox or itch your skins enrich
  With rubies past the telling,
’Twill clear your skin before you’ve been
  A month at Ballyspellin.

If lady’s cheek be green as leek
  When she comes from her dwelling,
The kindling rose within it glows
  When she’s at Ballyspellin.

The sooty brown, who comes from town,
  Grows here as fair as Helen;
Then back she goes, to kill the beaux,
  By dint of Ballyspellin.

Our ladies are as fresh and fair
  As Rose,[2] or bright Dunkelling: 
And Mars might make a fair mistake,
  Were he at Ballyspellin.

We men submit as they think fit,
  And here is no rebelling: 
The reason’s plain; the ladies reign,
  They’re queens at Ballyspellin.

By matchless charms, unconquer’d arms,
  They have the way of quelling
Such desperate foes as dare oppose
  Their power at Ballyspellin.

Cold water turns to fire, and burns
  I know, because I fell in
A stream, which came from one bright dame
  Who drank at Ballyspellin.