The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/Artemisia

ARTEMISIA.

THOUGH Artemisia talks, by fits,
Of councils, classicks, fathers, wits;
Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke:
Yet in some things, methinks, she fails;
'Twere well, if she would pare her nails,
And wear a cleaner smock.

Haughty and huge as High Dutch bride;
Such nastiness, and so much pride,
Are oddly join'd by fate:
On her large squab you find her spread,
Like a fate corpse upon a bed,
That lies and stinks in state.

She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part except her face;
All white and black beside:
Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,
And masculine her stride.

So have I seen, in black and white,
A prating thing, a magpie hight,
Majestically stalk;
A stately, worthless animal,
That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,
All flutter, pride, and talk.