 A Description of a City Shower, by Jonathan Swift Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk Careful observers may foretell the hour, by sure prognostics went to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pence of cat gives oar her frolics and pursues her tail no more. Going home at night you'll find the sink, strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise then go not far to dine, you spend in co-chair, more than save in wine. A coming shower you're shooting corn's pre-sage, o' dakes throb, your hollow tooth will rage. Sauntering in coffee-house is Dalman's scene. He dams the climate and complains of spleen. Meanwhile the south, rising with doubled wings, a sable cloud, a thwart, the welkin flings, that swill'd more liquor than it could contain, and like a drunkard, gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, while the first drizzling shower is borne a slope, such as that sprinkling which some careless queen flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean. You fly, invoke the gods, then turning stop to rail. She's singing, still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife, but aided by the wind, fought still for life, and wafted with its foe, by violent gust, twas doubtful which was rain and which was dust. Ah, where must needy poet seek for aid, when dust and rain at once his coat invade? So coat, where dust cemented by the rain, erects the nap and leaves a cloudy stain. Now when contiguous drops, the flood comes down, threatening with delage this devoted town. To shops and crowds, the daggled females fly, pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruces, while every spout's a brooch, stays till tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tuck-tuck-semstress walks with hasty strides, while streams run down, her oiled umbrellas sides. Here various kinds by various fortunes led, commence acquaintance underneath a shed, triumphant tories, and desponding wigs, forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Just in a chair, the bow impatient sits, while spouts run plattering, or the roof by fits, and ever and anon, with frightful din, the leather sounds, he trembles from within. So when Troy Chairman bore the wooden steed, pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed, those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, instead of paying Chairman, run them through. They awken, struck the outside with his spear, and each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, and bear their trophies with them as they go. Filth of all hues and odours seem to tell, what streets they sailed from, by the sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force, from Smithfield, or St. Palker's, shape their course. And in huge confluent join at Snowhill Ridge, fall from the conduit prone to Hallburn Bridge, sweeping from butcher's stalls, dung, guts, and blood, drowned puppies, stinking spratts, all drenched in mud, dead cats and turnips tops, come tumbling down the flood. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. Careful observers may foretell the hour, by sure prognostics, when to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pince of cat gizor, her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you'll find the sinks strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine, you spend in coach hire more than save and wine. A coming shower, you're shooting corn's presage. Cold aches throb. Your hollow tooth will rage. Sauntering in coffee-house's doleman scene, he dams the climate in complains of spleen. Meanwhile the south rising with dabbled wings, a sable cloud of thwart that welkin flings. That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, and like a drunkard gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, while the first drizzling shower is born a slope. Which is that sprinkling which some careless queen flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean. You fly, invoke the gods, then turning stop to rail. She's singing still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife, but aided by the wind fought still for life, and wafted with its foe by violent gust, to as doubtful which was rain and which was dust. Ah, where must needy poets seek for aid, when dust and rain at once his coat invade, sole coat, where dust, submitted by the rain, erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain. Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, threatening with the luge this devoted town, to shops and crowds that dangled females fly, pretended cheap and goods, but nothing by. The Templar spruce, while every sprout's abroach, stays till to spare, yet seems to call a coach. The tucked-up simpstress walks with hasty strides, while streams run down her oiled umbrellas sides. Hear various kinds by various fortunes led, commence acquaintance underneath the shed, triumphantories and desponding wigs, forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Boxed into chair the bow impatient sits, while sprouts run clattering over the roof by fits. And ever in and on with frightful din the leather sounds he trembles from within. So when Troy Chairmen bore the wooden steed, pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, those bully Greeks who as the moderns do, instead of paying Chairmen, run them through, they oak and struck the outside with his spear, and each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, and bear their trophies with them as they go. Filth of all hues and odors seems to tell what streets they sailed from, by the sight and smell. They as each torrent drives, with rapid force from Smithfield, or St. Pulkers, shape their course, and in a huge confluent join at Snow Hill Ridge. Fall from the conduit prone to Holburn Bridge. Sweepings from butcher stalls, dung, guts and blood, drowned puppies, stinking sprats all drenched in mud, dead cats and turnip tops come tumbling down the flood. A description of a city's shower by Jonathan Swift, read for LibriVox.org by Garth Burton. Careful observers may foretell the hour by sure prognostics when to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pensive cat gives her her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Coming home at night, you'll find the sink strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine. You spend in coach hire more than save in wine. A coming shower, you're shooting corn's presage. Old lakes throb, your hollow tooth will rage. Saundering in coffee-house is Dolman's scene. He dams the climate, and complains of spleen. Meanwhile, the south rising with doubled wings, a sable cloud of thwart-the-welkin flings, that swilled more liquor than it could contain, and like a drunkard gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, while the first drizzling shower is born a slope, such as that sprinkling which some careless queen flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean. You fly, invoke the gods, then turning, stop to rail. She singing, still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife, but aided by the wind fought still for life, and wafted with its foe by violent gust, twist out for which was rain and which was dust. Ah, where must needy poet seek for aid, when dust and rain at once his coat invade? Soul-coat, where dust, cemented by the rain, erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain. Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, threatening with deluge this devoted town. Two shops in crowds the daggled females fly, pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, stays till tis fair, yet seems to call the coach. The tucked-up seamstress walks with hasty strides, while streams run down her oiled umbrella's sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes, lead, commence acquaintance underneath a shed, triumphant tauries, and desponding wigs, forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Boxed in a chair the bow in patience sits, while spouts run clattering over the roof by fits, and ever and anon, with frightful din, the leather sounds, he trembles from within. So when Troy Chairman bore the wooden steed, pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed, those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, instead of paying Chairman, run them through, Leocran struck the outside with his spear, and each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, and bear their trophies with them as they go. Filth of all hues and odours seem to tell what streets they sailed from, by the sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives with rapid force from Smithfield, or St. Pulkers, shape their course, and in huge confluent join at Snow Hill Ridge, fall from the condit prone to Hoban Bridge. Sweepings from butcher's stalls, dung, guts and blood, drowned puppies, stinking spratts, all drenched in mud, dead cats and turnip tops come tumbling down the flood. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Description of a City Shower by Jonathan Swift Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Scott, Cheltenham, England GrahamScottAudio.com Careful observers may foretell the hour by sure prognostics when to dread a shower, while rain depends the pensive cat gives o'er her frolics and pursues her tail no more. Going home at night you'll find the sink strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine. You spend in coach-hire more than save in wine. A coming shower your shooting corn's presage, old aces throb, your hollow tooth will rage. Sauntering in coffee-house is Dullman's scene. He dams the climate and complains of spleen. Meanwhile, the south rising with dabbled wings, a sable cloud a-thwart the welkin flings, that swilled more liquor than it could contain, and like a drunkard gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips a linen from the rope, while the first drizzling shower is borne a slope, such is that sprinkling which some careless queen flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean. You fly, invoke the gods, then turning stop to rail, she singing still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunned an equal strife, but aided by the wind fought still for life, and wafted with its foe by violent gust, it was doubtful which was rain and which was dust. Ah, where must needy poets seek for aid, when dust and rain at once his coat invade, sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain, erects the nap and leaves a cloudy stain. Now incantiguous drops the flood comes down, threatening with deluge this devoted town. Two shops and crowds, the daggled females fly, pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The templar spruce, while every spouts a brooch, stays till tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tucked up seamstress walks with hasty strides, while streams run down her oiled umbrella's sides. The various kinds, by various fortunes led, commence a quaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant tories and desponding wigs forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Boxed in a chair the bow impatient sits, while spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, and ever and anon with frightful din the leather sounds he trembles from within. Though when Troy, chairman, bore the wooden steed, pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, instead of paying, chairman, run them through. Laucan struck the outside with his spear, and each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, and bear their trophies with them as they go. Both of all hues and odours seem to tell what streets they sailed from by the sight and smell. They as each torrent drives, with rapid force from Smithfield, or St. Pulkers, shape their course, and in huge confluent join Snowhill Ridge fall from the conduit prone to Hallborn Bridge. Sweepings from butcher's stalls, dung, guts and blood, drowned puppies stinking spratts all drenched in mud, dead cats and turnet tops come tumbling down the flood. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Description of a City Shower by Jonathan Swift Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Careful observers may foretell the hour by sure prognostics when to dread a shower. While rain depends the pensive cat gives o'er her frolics and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night you'll find the sink strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise then go not far to dine. You spend and coach higher more than save in wine. A coming shower your shooting corn's presage. Old aches throb your hollow tooth will rage, Drinking in coffee-house is dolemen's scene. He dams the climate and complains of spleen. Meanwhile the south rising with dabbled wings a sable cloud thwerth the welkin flings, that's willed more liquor than it could contain, and like a drunkard gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, while the first drizzling shower is borne a slope, such as that sprinkling which some careless queen flirts on you from her mop. But not so clean. You fly, invoke the gods, then turning stop to rail, she singing still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunned the unweakled strife, but aided by the wind fought still for life, and wafted with its foe by violent gust, twas dothful which was rain and which was dust. Ah, where must needy poets seek for aid when dust and rain at once his coat invade? This old coat, where dust cemented by the rain, erects the nap and leaves a cloudy stain. Now incantiguous drops the flood comes down, threatening with deluge this devoted town. To shops and crowds the dagled females fly, pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing by. The temper spruce, while every spout's abroach, stays till, to his fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tucked up seamstress walks with hasty strides, while streams run down her old umbrella-sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, commence acquaintance underneath the shed. Triumphant tories send despondent wigs, forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Boxed in a chair the bow a patient sits, while spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, and ever an anon with frightful thin, the leather sounds he trembles from within. The wintroy, chairman, bore the wooden steed, pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed. Those bullied Greeks who, as the moderns do, instead of paying chairman, run them through. Lea construct the outside with his spear, and each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, and bear their trophies with them as they go. Filth of all hues and odors seem to tell what streets they sailed from by the sight and smell. They as each torrent drives with rapid force from Smithfield or St. Pooker shape their course. And in huge confluence join at Snow Hill Ridge, fall from the conduit prone to Holburn Bridge. Sweepings from butcher stalls, dung, guts, and blood, drown puppies, stinking spats, all drenched in mud. Dead cats and turnip tops come tumbling down the flood. This recording is in the public domain. A Description of a City Shower by Jonathan Swift, read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shamp. Careful observers may foretell the hour by sure prognostics when to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pence of cat gives oar her frolics and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you'll find the sink strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine. You spend in cochire more than save in wine. A coming shower, your shooting corn's presage. Old aches throb, your hollow tooth will rage. Sauntering in coffee-house is Dullman's scene. He damns the climate and complains of spleen. Meanwhile, the south-rising with dabbled wings, a sable cloud, a thwart the welking flings that swill'd more liquor than it could contain, and like a drunkard gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, while the first drizzling shower is born a slope, such as that sprinkling which some careless queen flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean. You fly, invoking the gods, then turning, stop to rail. She's singing, still whorls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife, but aided by the wind, fought still for life, and wafted with its foe by violent gust, twas doubtful which was rain and which was dust. Ah, where must needy poets seek for aid, when dust and rain at once is coat-invade? Soil coat, where dust cemented by the rain, erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain. Now incantiguous drops the flood comes down, threatening with delos this devoted town, to shops in crowds the daggled females fly, pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every sprouts a brooch, stays till tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tucked-up seamstress walks with hasty strides, while streams run down her oiled umbrellasides. Here various kinds by various fortunes led, commerce acquaintance underneath a shed, triumph tories and desponding wigs forget their feuds and join to save their wigs. Boxed in a chair the bow impatient sits, while sprouts run clattering or the roof by fits, and ever and anon with frightful din the leather sounds he trembles from within. So when Troy Chairman bore the wooden steed, pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, those bully Greeks who, as the moderns do, instead of paying Chairman, run them through. They all construct the outside with his spear, and each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, and bear their trophies with them as they go. Filth of all hues and odours seem to tell what streets they sailed from by the sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force from Smithfield or St. Polkras shape their course, and in huge confluent join at Snow Hill Ridge, far from the conduit prone to Holborn Bridge. Sweepings from butcher stalls, dung and guts and blood, drowned puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud, dead cats and turnips tops come tumbling down the flood. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Description of a City Shower by Jonathan Swift, read for LibriVox by Summer Ward. Careful observers may foretell the hour by sure prognostics to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pensive cat gives ore, her frolics and pursues her tail no more. By turning home at night, you'll find the sink, strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine, you spend in coach hire more than save and wine. A coming shower, you're shooting corns per sage, old arches throb, your hollowed tooth will rage. Sauntering in a coffee house is Dolman's scene, he damns the climate and complains of spleen. Meanwhile, the south rising with dabbled wings, a sable cloud a thwart the Wilkin flings. That swilled more liquor than it could contain, and like a drunkard give it a sit up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, while the first drizzling shower is born a slope, such as that sprinkling which some careless queen, flirts on you from her mop but not so clean. You fly, invoke the gods, then turning stop. To rail she singing still whirls her mop. Not yet the dust has shunned the unequal strife, but aided by the wind fought still for her life, and wafted with its foe by violent gust, twas doubtful which was rain and which was dust. Ah, where must needy poet seek for aid, when dust and rain at once his coat invade? Soul coat, where dust cemented by the rain, erects the nap and leaves a cloudy stain. Now incontagious drops the flood comes down, threatening with deluge this devoted town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, pretending to cheapen the goods, but nothing by. The Templar spruce, while every sprouts a brooch, stays tilled his fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tucked up, sensed stress walks with hasty strides, while streams run down her oiled umbrella sides. Hear various kinds, by various fortunes led. Commerce acquaintance underneath a shed, trumpet, tories, and desponding wigs, forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Boxed in a chair, the bow impatient sits, while sprouts run clattering over the roof by fits. And ever and anon with frightful din, the leather sounds he trembles from within. So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, instead of playing chairmen, run them through. Laocon struck the outside with his spear, and each imprisoned hero quaked with fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, and bear their trophies with them as they go. Filth of all hues and odors seem to tell what streets they sailed from by the sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, from Smithfield or St. Poultres shape their course, and in huge confluent join at Snow Hill Ridge, fall from the conduit prone to Holborn Ridge, sweeping from the butcher's stalls dung, guts, and blood. Drowned puppies, stinking sprats all drenched in mud, dead cats, and turnip tops come tumbling down the flood. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.