The Works of Jonathan Swift: Accurately Revised in Twelve Volumes, Adorned with Copper-plates. With Some Account of the Author's Life and Notes, Historical and Explanatory, Band 6

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Seite 146 - Tis but the funeral of the former year. Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Calm every thought, inspirit every grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face. Let day improve on day, and year on year, Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear...
Seite 263 - HERE continueth to rot The Body of FRANCIS CHARTRES, Who, with an INFLEXIBLE CONSTANCY, and INIMITABLE UNIFORMITY of Life, PERSISTED, In spite of AGE and INFIRMITIES, In the Practice of EVERY HUMAN VICE, Excepting PRODIGALITY and HYPOCRISY : His insatiable AVARICE exempted him from the first, His matchless IMPUDENCE from the second.
Seite 30 - Tis an old maxim in the schools, That flattery's the food of fools; Yet now and then your men of wit Will condescend to take a bit.
Seite 43 - A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Seite 196 - To raise the lumber from the earth. But view him in another scene, When all his drink is Hippocrene, His money...
Seite 300 - I'll venture for the vole.) Six deans, they say, must bear the pall : (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend.
Seite 45 - Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds ; he trembles from within...
Seite 301 - tis a shocking sight, And he's engaged to-morrow night; My Lady Club will take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. He loved the Dean— (I lead a heart,) But dearest friends, they say, must part. His time was come: he ran his race; We hope he's in a better place.
Seite 146 - See how the world its veterans rewards ! A youth of frolics, an old age of cards; Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, Young without lovers, old without a friend; A fop their passion, but their prize a sot, Alive, ridiculous; and dead, forgot!
Seite 299 - He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters ; Revive the libels born to die : Which Pope must bear as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament.

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