EPIGRAM S.

Written upon a Window in an Inn.

WE fly from luxury and wealth,

To hardships in purfuit of health; From gen'rous wines and coftly fare, And doting in an eafy chair; Pursue the Goddefs Health in vain, To find her in a country scene, And ev'ry where her footsteps trace, And fee her marks in ev'ry face; And ftill her favourites we meet, Crouding the roads with naked feet. But oh! fo faintly we pursue, We ne'er can have her full in view.

Written upon Windows at Inns,
in ENGLAND.

THE

HE glass, by lovers nonfenfe blurr'd,
Dims and obfcures our fight:

So when our paffions Love hath ftirr'd,
It darkens Reafon's light.

Another.

Another, written upon a Window where there was no Writing before.

HANKS to my Stars, I once can fee

ΤΗΛ

A window here from fcribbling free: Here no conceited coxcombs pass, To scratch their paultry drabs on glass; Nor party-fool is calling names,

Or dealing crowns to George and James.

Another at CHESTER.

MY

landlord is civil,

But dear as the D---1:
Your pockets grow empty,
With nothing to tempt ye:
The wine is fo four,

'Twill give you a scour:
The beer and the ale
Are mingled with ftale.
The veal is fuch carrion,
A dog would be weary on.
All this I have felt,

For I live on a fmelt.

Another

Another, in CHESTER.

THE walls of this Town
Are full of renown,

And strangers delight to walk round 'em:
But, as for the dwellers,

Both buyers and sellers,

For me, you may hang'em, or drown 'em.

Another, at HOLY HEAD. Neptune! Neptune! must I still Be here detain'd against my will? Is this your juftice, when I'm come Above two hundred miles from home? O'er mountains fteep, o'er dufty plains, Half choak'd with duft, half drown'd with rains ;

Only your Godship to implore,

To let me kifs your other fhore?
A boon fo fmall! But I may weep,
Whilft you're, like Baal, fast asleep.

*These Verfes are figned 7- K-, but written, as it is prefumed, in Dr. Swift's hand.

VOL. XVI.

A a

AN

Except the first, the fault's your own.,

DOCTOR.

To all my friends a burthen grown.

ANSWER.

Because to few you will be fhown.
Give them good wine, and meat to stuff,
You may have company enough.

DOCTOR.

No more I hear my church's bell,
Than if it rang out for my knell.

ANSWER.

Then write and read, 'twill do as well.

* This Poem is printed in Vol. VII. p. 430, but without the Answers.

Doc

At thunder now no more I fart,
Than at the rumbling of a cart.

ANSWER.

DOCTOR.

And what's incredible, alack!
No more I hear a woman's clack.

ANSWER.

A woman's clack, if I have skill,
Sounds fomewhat like a throwfter's mill;
But louder than a bell, or thunder:
That does, I own, encreafe my wonder.