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Jonathan Swift - On Ink
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I am jet black, as you may see,
  The son of pitch and gloomy night:
Yet all that know me will agree,
  I`m dead except I live in light.


Sometimes in panegyric high,
  Like lofty Pindar, I can soar;
And raise a virgin to the sky,
  Or sink her to a pocky whore.


My blood this day is very sweet,
  To-morrow of a bitter juice;
Like milk, `tis cried about the street,
  And so applied to different use.


Most wondrous is my magic power:
  For with one colour I can paint;
I`ll make the devil a saint this hour,
  Next make a devil of a saint.


Through distant regions I can fly,
  Provide me but with paper wings;
And fairly show a reason why
  There should be quarrels among kings:


And, after all, you`ll think it odd,
  When learned doctors will dispute,
That I should point the word of God,
  And show where they can best confute.


Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats:
  `Tis I that must the lands convey,
And strip their clients to their coats;
  Nay, give their very souls away.
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