Literary Works by Jonathan Swift

The Battle of the Books And Other Short Pieces by Jonathan Swift
SATIRE is a sort of glass wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's face but their own; which is the chief reason for that kind reception it meets with in the world, and that so very few are offended with it. But, if it should happen otherwise, the danger is not great; and I have learned from long experience never to apprehend mischief from those understandings I have been able to provoke: for anger and fury, though they add strength to the sinews of the body, yet are found to relax those of the mind, and to render all its efforts feeble and impotent.
Prepared by David Price
Format: Text | PDF | HTML

The Bickerstaff-Partridge Papers by Jonathan Swift
I have long consider'd the gross abuse of astrology in this kingdom, and upon debating the matter with myself, I could not possibly lay the fault upon the art, but upon those gross impostors, who set up to be the artists. I know several learned men have contended that the whole is a cheat; that it is absurd and ridiculous to imagine, the stars can have any influence at all upon human actions, thoughts, or inclinations: And whoever has not bent his studies that way, may be excused for thinking so, when he sees in how wretched a manner that noble art is treated by a few mean illiterate traders between us and the stars; who import a yearly stock of nonsense, lyes, folly, and impertinence, which they offer to the world as genuine from the planets, tho' they descend from no greater a height than their own brains.
Format: Text | PDF | HTML

Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift
The author of these Travels, Mr. Lemuel Gulliver, is my ancient and intimate friend; there is likewise some relation between us on the mother's side. About three years ago, Mr. Gulliver growing weary of the concourse of curious people coming to him at his house in Redriff, made a small purchase of land, with a convenient house, near Newark, in Nottinghamshire, his native country; where he now lives retired, yet in good esteem among his neighbours.
Prepared by David Price
Format: Text | PDF | HTML

A Modest Proposal by Jonathan Swift
It is a melancholy object to those, who walk through this great town, or travel in the country, when they see the streets, the roads and cabbin-doors crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in rags, and importuning every passenger for an alms. These mothers instead of being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their time in stroling to beg sustenance for their helpless infants who, as they grow up, either turn thieves for want of work, or leave their dear native country, to fight for the Pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.
Note:This maybe offensive to you, read at your own risk!
Format: Text | PDF | HTML

The Lady's Dressing Room by Jonathan Swift
And first a dirty smock appeared, Beneath the arm-pits well besmeared. Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide And turned it round on every side. On such a point few words are best, And Strephon bids us guess the rest; And swears how damnably the men lie In calling Celia sweet and cleanly. Now listen while he next produces The various combs for various uses, Filled up with dirt so closely fixt, No brush could force a way betwixt.
Prepared by Jack Lynch
Format: Text | PDF | HTML

A Description of a City Shower. October, 1710. by Jonathan Swift
Careful observers may foretell the hour (By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower: While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er Her frolics and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine: You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old aches throb, your hollow tooth will rage. Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen; He damns the climate and complains of spleen.
Prepared by Jack Lynch
Format: Text | PDF | HTML

A Description of the Morning. April, 1709. by Jonathan Swift
Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach Appearing showed the ruddy morn's approach. Now Betty from her master's bed had flown And softly stole to discompose her own. The slipshod prentice from his master's door Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Prepared by Jack Lynch
Format: Text | PDF | HTML