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Four poems
Jonathan Swift, Irish man of letters
- On a Pair of Dice
- We are little brethren twain,
- Arbiters of loss and gain,
- Many to our counters run,
- Some are made, and some undone:
- But men find it to their cost,
- Few are made, but numbers lost.
- Though we play them tricks for ever,
- Yet they always hope our favour.
- On a Circle
- I’m up and down, and round about,
- Yet all the world can’t find me out;
- Though hundreds have employ’d their leisure,
- They never yet could find my measure.
- I’m found almost in every garden,
- Nay, in the compass of a farthing.
- There’s neither chariot, coach, nor mill,
- Can move an inch except I will.
- On an Ill-Managed House
- Let me thy properties explain:
- A rotten cabin dropping rain:
- Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke;
- Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke.
- Here elements have lost their uses,
- Air ripens not, nor earth produces:
- In vain we make poor Sheelah toil,
- Fire will not roast, nor water boil.
- Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
- The Goddess Want, in triumph reigns:
- And her chief officers of state,
- Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.
- On Time
- Ever eating, never cloying,
- All-devouring, all-destroying,
- Never finding full repast,
- Till I eat the world at last.
Jonathan Swift (1667–1745) was an Irish man of letters — who wrote satires, essays, political commentary and analysis, and poetry. Most famous for his satirical novel Gulliver’s Travels and his equally satirical “A Modest Proposal” (which proposes to solve Irish poverty once and for all for England through systematic cannibalism of Ireland’s population), this cleric, who became the dean of St. Patrick Cathedral, Dublin, is also well-regarded for his classic, tightly constructed satires, invoking the spirit and style of such Roman satirists as Horace, Juvenal, and Martial.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Four poems
Four poems
Jonathan Swift, Irish man of letters
- On a Pair of Dice
- We are little brethren twain,
- Arbiters of loss and gain,
- Many to our counters run,
- Some are made, and some undone:
- But men find it to their cost,
- Few are made, but numbers lost.
- Though we play them tricks for ever,
- Yet they always hope our favour.
- On a Circle
- I’m up and down, and round about,
- Yet all the world can’t find me out;
- Though hundreds have employ’d their leisure,
- They never yet could find my measure.
- I’m found almost in every garden,
- Nay, in the compass of a farthing.
- There’s neither chariot, coach, nor mill,
- Can move an inch except I will.
- On an Ill-Managed House
- Let me thy properties explain:
- A rotten cabin dropping rain:
- Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke;
- Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke.
- Here elements have lost their uses,
- Air ripens not, nor earth produces:
- In vain we make poor Sheelah toil,
- Fire will not roast, nor water boil.
- Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
- The Goddess Want, in triumph reigns:
- And her chief officers of state,
- Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.
- On Time
- Ever eating, never cloying,
- All-devouring, all-destroying,
- Never finding full repast,
- Till I eat the world at last.
Jonathan Swift (1667–1745) was an Irish man of letters — who wrote satires, essays, political commentary and analysis, and poetry. Most famous for his satirical novel Gulliver’s Travels and his equally satirical “A Modest Proposal” (which proposes to solve Irish poverty once and for all for England through systematic cannibalism of Ireland’s population), this cleric, who became the dean of St. Patrick Cathedral, Dublin, is also well-regarded for his classic, tightly constructed satires, invoking the spirit and style of such Roman satirists as Horace, Juvenal, and Martial.
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