Poem by Thomas Parnell

A Riddle

Upon a Bed of humble clay
In all her Garments loose
A Prostitute my Mother lay
To ev'ry Comer's use.
'Till one Gallant in heat of love
His Own Peculiar made her
And to a Region far above
And softer Beds convey'd her.
But in his Absence, to his Place
His rougher Rival came
And with a cold constrain'd Embrace
Begat me on the Dame.
I then appear'd to Publick View
A Creature wondrous bright
But shortly perishable too
Inconstant, nice and light.
On Feathers not together fast
I wildly flew about
And from my Father's country past
To find my Mother out.
Where her Gallant of her beguil'd
With me enamour'd grew
And I that was my Mother's Child
Brought forth my Mother too. 

1. On Dr. Brown's Death
2. In Biddy's Cheeks Ye Roses Blow
3. The Convert's Love
4. Young Philomela's Powrfull Dart
5. When Ore My Temples Balmy Vapours Rise

Jonathan Swift A Riddle ("I'm wealthy and poor")

Print

1466 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version