 Bittisworth's Exaltation by Jonathan Swift, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kitchock. Upon hearing that his name would be transmitted to posterity in Dr. Swift's works by William Duncan. Well, now, since the heat of my passions abated, that the dean hath lampooned me, my mind is elated. Lampooned, did I call it? No. What was it, then? What was it? It was fame to be lashed by his pen. For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till in doomsday, a poor, insignificant reptile. Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull, and inglorious, obscure, and unheard of. But now I'm notorious. Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one. The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one. If the end be obtained, tis equal what portal I enter, since I'm to be rendered immortal. So clisters apply to the anus tis said, by skillful physicians, give ease to the head. Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard? A man is a man, though he should be a bastard. Why, sure to some comfort, that heroes should slay us. If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Phenaeus, and who by the drapery would not rather damned be, than demigodized by Madrigal Namby. A man is no more who has once lost his breath, but poets convince us there's life after death. They call from their graves, the king or the peasant, react our old deeds, and make what's past, present, and when they would study to set forth a like, so the lines be well drawn, and the colors but strike, whatever the subject be, coward or hero, a tyrant or patriot, a titus or nero, to a judge tis all one, which he fixes his eye on, and a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Bette is worth's exultation by Jonathan Swift, read for LibriVox.org by Caitlyn Buckley. Upon hearing that his name would be transmitted to posterity in Dr. Swift's works by William Duncan. Well, now since the heat of my passions abated, that the dean hath lampooned me, my mind is elated. Lampooned, did I call it? No, what was it then? What was it? It was fame to be lashed by his pen. For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till in doomsday a poor and significant reptile. Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull, and inglorious, obscure, and unheard of. But now I'm notorious. Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one. The worst they can say is I got in at the back one. If the end be obtained, tis equal what portal I enter since I am to be rendered immortal. So Kleister's applied to the anus tis said by skillful physicians give ease to the head. Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard? A man is a man, though he should be a bastard. Why short is some comfort that heroes should slay us? If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Phenaeus, and who by the draper would not rather damned be, than demigod dyes by madrigal Namby? A man is no more who has once lost his breath, but poets convince us there's life after death. They call from their graves the king or the peasant, react our old deeds and make what's past present. And when they would study to set forth a like, so the lines be well drawn in the colors but strike. Whatever the subject be, coward or hero, a tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero, to a judge tis all one when she fixes his eye on, and a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Belt's Worse, Exultation, by Jonathan Swift, read for Libberbox.org by Chad Horner, from Liverpool. Upon hearing that his name would be transmitted to posterity, and Dr. Swift's works by William Duncan. Well, now, since the heat of my passions abated, that the Dean hath lampooned me, my mind is elated. Lampooned, did I call it? No. What was it then? What was it? It was fame to be lashed by his pen. For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till Ian Doomsday, a poor insignificant reptile. Half lawyer, half actor. Pert, dull and inglorious, obscure and unheard of. But now I'm notorious. Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one. The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one. If the end be obtained, tis equal what portal I enter. Since I'm to be rendered immortal, so Kleister's applied to the anus, tis said, by skilful physicians. Give ease to the head. Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard? A man is a man, though he should be a bastard. Why, sure, tis some comfort that heroes should slay us. If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Pneas, and who by the draper would not rather damned be, than demigodised by a dreagle namby. A man is no more who has once lost his breath, but poets convince us there's life after death. They call from the graves the king or the peasant. React our old deeds, but make what's past present, and when they would study to set forth alike. So the lines be well drawn, and the colours but strike. Whatever the subject be, coward or hero, a tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero, to you judged his all one, which he fixes his eye on, and a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Well, now since the heat of my passions abated that the dean hath lampooned me, my mind is elated. Lampooned, did I call it? No, what was it then? What was it? T'was fame to be lashed by his pen? For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till in doomsday a poor insignificant reptile. Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull and inglorious, obscure and unheard of, but now I'm notorious. Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one, the worst they can say as I got in at the back one. If the end be obtained is equal what portal I enter since I am to be rendered immortal? So clisters applied to the anus, is said by skillful physicians give ease of the head. Though my title bespurious, why should I be dastard? A man is a man, though he should be a bastard. Why, sure, it is some comfort that heroes should slayers, if I fall, I would fall by the hand of Phineas. And who by the draper would not rather damned be, than Demigod eyes, by Madrigal Namby? A man is no more who has once lost his breath, but poets convince as there's life after death. They call from their graves the king or the peasant, react our old deeds and make what's past present. And when they would study to set forth alike, so the lines be well drawn and the colours but strike, whatever the subject be, coward or hero, a tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero, to a judge is all one which he fixes his eye on, and a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Betsworth's Exultation by Jonathan Swift Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett Upon hearing that his name would be transmitted to posterity and Dr. Swift's works by William Duncan. Well, now, since the heat of my passions abated, that the Dean Hath lampooned me, my mind is elated. Lampooned, did I call it? No. What was it, then? What was it? To his fame to be lashed by his pen? For had he not pointed me out, I'd slept till even Newm's Day, a poor and significant reptile. Half lawyer, half actor, hurt, dull and inglorious. Obscure and unheard of, but now I'm notorious. Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one. The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one. If the end be obtained, tis equal what portal I enter, since I'm to be rendered immortal. So Clisters applied to the anus, tis said, by skilful physicians, give ease to the head. Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard? A man is a man, though he should be a bastard. Why, sure, tis some comfort that heroes should slay us. If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Phenaeus. And who by the drapeyre would not rather damned be, than demigodized by madrigal Nambi? A man is no more who is once lost his breath, but poets convince us there's life after death. They call from their graves the king or the peasant. React our old deeds and make what's past present. And when they would study to set forth a like, so the lines be well drawn, and the colors would strike. Whatever the subject be, coward or hero, a tyrant or patriot, a titus or nero, to a judge tis all one which he fixes his eye on, and a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Betisworth's Exultation by Jonathan Swift. Read for LibriVox.org by Nick Zager. Upon hearing that his name would be transmitted to posterity in Dr. Swift's works by William Duncan. Well, now, since the heat of my passions abated, that the dean hath lampooned me, my mind is elated. Lampoon, did I call it? No. What was it then? What was it? It was fame to be lashed by his pen. For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till Ian Doomsday, a poor, insignificant reptile, half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull and inglorious, obscure and unheard of, but now I'm notorious. Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one. The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one. If the end be obtained tis equal what portal, I enter since I'm to be rendered immortal. So Kleister's applied to the anus tis said, by skillful physicians give ease to the head. Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard? A man is a man, though he should be a bastard. Why, sure, tis some comfort that heroes should slay us. If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Phenaeus. And who, by the drapeer, would not rather damned be, than demigodized by magical Nambi? A man is no more who has once lost his breath, but poets convince us there's life after death. They call from their graves the king or the peasant, react our old deeds and make what's past present, and when they would study to set forth a like, so the lines be well drawn and the colors but strike. Whatever the subject be, coward or hero, a tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero, to a judge tis all one which he fixes his eye on, and a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Betsworth's Exultation by Jonathan Swift Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Upon hearing that his name would be transmitted to posterity in Dr. Swift's works by William Duncan. Well, now, since the heat of my passions abated, that the dean hath lampooned me, my mind is elated. Lampooned, did I call it? No. What was it then? What was it? It was fame to be lashed by his pen. For had he not pointed me out, had slept till in doomsday a poor insignificant reptile, half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull and inglorious, obscure and unheard of. But now I am notorious. Fame is but two gates, a white and a black one. The worst, they can say, is I got in at the back one. In the end be obtained till equal what portal I enter, since I am to be rendered immortal. So Christ is applied to the anus, till said by skillful physicians give ease to the head. Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard? A man is a man, though he should be abasted. Why, sure, it is some comfort that heroes should slay us. If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Phineas. And who by the draper would not rather damned be, than demigod eyes by magical Nambi. A man is no more who has once lost his breath. But poets convince us there is life after death. They call from their graves the king, or the peasant, react our old deeds, and make what's past present. And when they would study to set forth a like, so the lines be well drawn, and the colors but strike, whatever the subject be, coward or hero, a tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero, to a judge is all one which he fixes his eye on, and a well-painted monkey is as good as a lion. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Upon hearing that his name would be transmitted to posterity in Doctor Swift's Works by William Duncan. Well, now since the heat of my passions abated, that the dean hath lampooned me, my mind is elated. Lampooned, did I call it? No, what was it then? What was it? T' was fame to be lashed by his pen, for had he not pointed me out, I had slipped till Ian Doomsday, a poor and significant reptile. Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull and inglorious, obscure and unheard of. But now I'm notorious. Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one. The worst they can say is I got in at the back one. If the end be obtained, t' is equal what portal I enter, since I'm to be rendered immortal. So clisters applied to the anus, t' is said, by skillful physicians give ease to the head. Though my title be spurious, why should I be dastard? A man is a man, though he should be abasted. Why, sure it is some comfort, that heroes should slay us, if I fall, I would fall by the hand of Phineas. And who, by the draper, would not rather damned be, than Demigod dized by Madrigal Nemby? A man is no more, who has once lost his breath. But poets convince us there's life after death. They call from their graves the king or the peasant, react our old deeds and make what's past present. And when they would study to set forth a like, so the lines be well drawn, and the colors butt strike, whatever the subject be, covered or hero, a tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero, to a judge, t' is all one, which he fixes his eye on, and a well-painted monkeys, as good as a lion. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.