Jonathan Swift

Jonathan Swift (30 November 1667 – 19 October 1745) was an Anglo-Irish satirist, essayist, political pamphleteer (first for the Whigs, then for the Tories), poet and cleric who became Dean of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin.

He is remembered for works such as Gulliver's Travels, A Modest Proposal, A Journal to Stella, Drapier's Letters, The Battle of the Books, An Argument Against Abolishing Christianity, and A Tale of a Tub. Swift is probably the foremost prose satirist in the English language, and is less well known for his poetry. Swift originally published all of his works under pseudonyms – such as Lemuel Gulliver, Isaac Bickerstaff, MB Drapier – or anonymously. He is also known for being a master of two styles of satire: the Horatian and Juvenalian styles.

Read more about Jonathan Swift:  Works, Legacy

Famous quotes by jonathan swift:

    And he gave it for his opinion, that whoever could make two ears of corn, or two blades of grass, to grow upon a spot of ground where only one grew before, would deserve better of mankind, and do more essential service to his country, than the whole race of politicians put together.
    Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

    All human race would fain be wits.
    And millions miss, for one that hits.
    Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

    But you think ... that it is time for me to have done with the world, and so I would if I could get into a better before I was called into the best, and not die here in a rage, like a poisoned rat in a hole.
    Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

    He gathers all the parish there;
    Points out the place of either yew,
    Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew.
    Till once a parson of our town,
    To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
    At which, ‘tis hard to be believed
    How much the other tree was grieved,
    Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted:
    So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.
    Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

    For poetry, he’s past his prime,
    He takes an hour to find a rhyme;
    His fire is out, his wit decayed,
    His fancy sunk, his muse a jade.
    I’d have him throw away his pen,
    But there’s no talking to some men.
    Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)