Those creatures that draw me you never would mind,
If you'd but look on your own Pharaoh's lean kine;
They're taken for spectres, they're so meagre and spare,
Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare.
We know how your lady was on you befriended;
You're not to be paid for 'till the lawsuit is ended:
But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt;
She is two or three years above being out.
Could my Knight be advised, he should ne'er spend his vigour
On one he can't hope of e'er making _bigger_.
[Footnote 1: Mrs. Dorothy Stopford, afterwards Countess of Meath, of whom
Swift says, in his Journal to Stella, Feb. 23, 1711-12, "Countess Doll
of Meath is such an owl, that, wherever I visit, people are asking me,
whether I know such an Irish lady, and her figure and her foppery."
See, _post_, the Poem entitled, "Dicky and Dolly."--_W. E. B._]
TO LORD HARLEY, ON HIS MARRIAGE[1]
OCTOBER 31, 1713
Among the numbers who employ
Their tongues and pens to give you joy,
Dear Harley! generous youth, admit
What friendship dictates more than wit.
Forgive me, when I fondly thought
(By frequent observations taught)
A spirit so inform'd as yours
Could never prosper in amours.
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