Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/59

Nor seldom grace the flowery downs,
With spiral tops and copple crowns;
Or gilding in a sunny morn
The humble branches of a thorn.
So, poets sing, with golden bough
The Trojan hero paid his vow.
Hither, by luckless errour led,
The crude consistence oft I tread:
Here, when my shoes are out of case,
Unweeting gild the tarnish'd lace;
Here, by the sacred bramble ting'd,
My petticoat is doubly fring'd.
Be witness for me, nymph divine,
I never robb'd thee with design:
Nor will the zealous Hannah pout
To wash thy injur'd offering out.
But stop, ambitious muse, in time,
Nor dwell on subjects too sublime.
In vain on lofty heels I tread,
Aspiring to exalt my head:
With hoop expanded wide and light,
In vain I 'tempt too high a flight.
Me Phœbus in a midnight dream
Accosting said, "Go shake your cream^[1]."
Be humbly minded, know your post;
Sweeten your tea, and watch your toast.
Thee best befits a lowly style:
Teach Dennis how to stir the guile^[2];
With Peggy Dixon^[3] thoughtful sit,
Contriving for the pot and spit.

1. In the bottle, to make butter.
2. The quantity of ale or beer brewed at one time.
3. Mrs. Dixon, the housekeeper.