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


YOU say your face is better hung
Than ours — by what? by nose or tongue?
In not explaining, you are wrong
to us, sir.

Because we thus must state the case,
That you have got a hanging face,
Th' untimely end's a damn'd disgrace
of noose, sir.

But yet be not cast down: I see
A weaver will your hangman be;
You'll only hang in tapestry
with many:

And then the ladies, I suppose,
Will praise your longitude of nose,
For latent charms within your clothes,
dear Danny.

Thus will the fair of every age
From all parts make their pilgrimage,
Worship thy nose with pious rage
of love, sir:

All their religion will be spent
About thy woven monument,
And not one orison be sent
to Jove, sir.

You the fam'd idol will become,
As gardens grac'd in ancient Rome,
By matrons worship'd in the gloom
of night:

O happy Dan! thrice happy sure!
Thy fame for ever shall endure,
Who after death can love secure
at sight.

So far I thought it was my duty
To dwell upon thy boasted beauty;
Now I'll proceed a word or two t' ye
in answer

To that part where you carry on
This paradox, that rock and stone
In your opinion are all one:
How can, sir,

A man of reasoning so profound
So stupidly be run aground,
As things so different to confound
t' our senses?

Except you judg'd them by the knock
Of near an equal hardy block:
Such an experimental stroke

Then might you be, by dint of reason,
A proper judge on this occasion;
'Gainst feeling there's no disputation,
is granted:

Therefore to thy superiour wit,
Who made the trial, we submit;
Thy head to prove the truth of it
we wanted.

In one assertion you're to blame,
Where Dan and Sherry's made the same,
Endeavouring to have your name
refin'd, sir:

You'll see most grossly you mistook,
If you consult your spelling-book,
(The better half you say you took)
you'll find, sir;

S, H, E, she — and R, I, ri,
Both put together make Sherry,
D, A, N, Dan — makes up the three

Dan is but one, and Sherri two,
Then, sir, your choice will never do;
Therefore I've turn'd, my friend, on you
the tables.