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On A Circle: Poem by Jonathan Swift

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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.

Analysis of this poem

More verses by Jonathan Swift

  • Louisa To Strephon
  • On A Very Old Glass At Market-Hill
  • Stella At Wood Park, A House Of Charles Ford, Esq., Near Dublin
  • On A Horn
  • Mrs Frances Haris's Petition

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