And reprove her when she’s right;
She may then grow wise for spight. 
  No—­that scheme will ne’er succeed,
She has better learnt her creed;
She’s too cunning and too skilful,
When to yield, and when be wilful. 
Nature holds her forth two mirrors,
One for truth, and one for errors: 
That looks hideous, fierce, and frightful;
This is flattering and delightful: 
That she throws away as foul;
Sits by this to dress her soul. 
  Thus you have the case in view,
Daphne, ’twixt the Dean and you: 
Heaven forbid he should despise thee,
But he’ll never more advise thee.

RIDDLES BY DR. SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS.  WRITTEN IN OR ABOUT THE YEAR 1724

The following notice is subjoined to some of these riddles, in the Dublin edition:  “About nine or ten years ago, (i.e. about 1724,) some ingenious gentlemen, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and in England.  The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, entertainment, or use.  However, by the advice of some persons, for whom the author hath a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of compositions.”

PETHOX THE GREAT. 1723

FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows;
But who thy father, no man knows: 
Nor can the skilful herald trace
The founder of thy ancient race;
Whether thy temper, full of fire,
Discovers Vulcan for thy sire,
The god who made Scamander boil,
And round his margin singed the soil: 
(From whence, philosophers agree,
An equal power descends to thee;)
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high descent from whence you came,
And, as a proof, show numerous scars
By fierce encounters made in wars,
Those honourable wounds you bore
From head to foot, and all before,
And still the bloody field frequent,
Familiar in each leader’s tent;
Or whether, as the learn’d contend,
You from the neighbouring Gaul descend;
Or from Parthenope[1] the proud,
Where numberless thy votaries crowd;
Whether thy great forefathers came
From realms that bear Vespuccio’s name,[2]
For so conjectures would obtrude;
And from thy painted skin conclude;
Whether, as Epicurus[3] shows,
The world from justling seeds arose,
Which, mingling with prolific strife
In chaos, kindled into life: 
So your production was the same,
And from contending atoms came. 
  Thy fair indulgent mother crown’d