English poem

On A Pair Of Dice

We are little brethren twain, Arbiters of loss and gain, Many to our counters run, Some are made, and some undone: But men find it to their cost, Few are made, but numbers lost. Though we play them tricks for ever, Yet they always hope our favour.

More by Jonathan Swift

On A Circle
On A Corkscrew
On A Curate's Complaint Of Hard Duty
On A Horn
On A Pen.
On A Printer'S[1] Being Sent To Newgate
On A Very Old Glass At Market-Hill
On A Window At An Inn (Epigrams On Windows)

All 529 poems by Jonathan Swift