A poem about oysters from Jonathan Swift.

With lines like this it is easy to forget that Swift was a preacher, and Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin no less. Those were happier sexual days in terms of religion, at least in one rectory.

Charming Oysters I cry,
My Masters come buy,
So plump and so fresh
So sweet in their Flesh,
No Colchester Oyster,
Is sweeter and moister,
Your Stomach they settle,
And rouse up your Mettle,
They’ll make you a Dad
Of a Lass or a Lad;
And Madam your Wife
They’ll please to the Life;
Be she barren, be she old,
Be she Slut, or be she Scold,
Eat my Oysters, and lie near her,
She’ll be fruitful, never fear her.