The Thresher Duck, could o'er the Q prevail,
The Proverb says; No Fence against a Flayl.
From threshing Corn, he turns to thresh his Brains;
For which Her My allows him Grains.
Though 'tis confess't, that those who ever saw
His Poems, think them all not worth a Straw.
Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing Stubble!
Thy Toil is lessen'd, and thy Profits double.
More verses by Jonathan Swift
- Jack Frenchman’s Lamentation
- The Fable Of Midas
- The Dean’s Reasons For Not Building At Drapier’s-Hill
- Stella’s Birth-Day: A Great Bottle Of Wine, Long Buried, Being That Day Dug Up. 1722-3
- Lines Written Extempore On Mr. Harley’s Being Stabbed, And Addressed To His Physician, 1710-11