Poem by Jonathan Swift

On a Circle

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. 

1. A Rebus. By Vanessa
2. Dean Swift at Sir Arthur Acheson’s, in the North of Ireland
3. At Holyhead
4. Verses on Blenheim
5. Drapier’s Hill

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