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The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Dr. Swift's Reply


THE verses you sent on the bottling your wine
Were, in every one's judgment, exceedingly fine;
And I must confess, as a dean and divine,
I think you inspir'd by the Muses all nine.
I nicely examin'd them every line,
And the worst of them all like a barndoor did shine,
O, that Jove would give me such a talent as thine!
With Delany or Dan I would scorn to combine.
I know they have many a wicked design;
And, give Satan his due, Dan begins to refine.
However, I wish, honest comrade of mine,
You would really on Thursday leave St. Catharine[1],
Where I hear you are cramm'd every day like a swine;
With me you'll no more have a stomach to dine,
Nor after your victuals lie sleeping supine:
So I wish you were toothless, like lord Masserine.
But, were you as wicked as lewd Aretine,
I wish you would tell me which way you incline.
If, when you return, your road you don't line,
On Thursday I'll pay my respects at your shrine,
Wherever you bend, wherever you twine,
In square, or in opposite circle, or trine,
Your beef will on Thursday be salter than brine:
I hope you have swill'd, with new milk from the kine,
As much as the Liffee's outdone by the Rhine;
And Dan shall be with us, with nose aquiline.
If you do not come back, we shall weep out our eyne:
Or may your gown never be good Lutherine.
The beef you have got, I hear, is a chine:
But, if too many come, your madam will whine;
And then you may kiss the low end of her spine.
But enough of this poetry Alexandrine:
I hope you will not think this a pasquine.