By the worst of all

Squires,

Through bogs and thro'

briers,

Where a cow would be ftartled,

I'm in spite of my heart led;

And, fay what I will, Haul'd up every up every hill; Till, daggled and tatter'd, My fpirits quite fhatter'd, I return home at night, And faft, out of spite: For I'd rather be dead, Than it e'er fhould be faid I was better for him, In ftomach or limb. But now to my

diet;

wheels;

I fink in the spleen,

A useless machine,

If he had his will,

I should never fit ftill:
He comes with hiswhims,
I must move my limbs;
I cannot be sweet
Without using my feet;
To lengthen my breath,
He tires me to death.

He's still finding fault,

Too four or too falt:

The wing of a chick
I hardly can pick;
But trafhwithout measure
I fwallow with pleasure.

Next for his diverfion, He rails at my perfon: What court-breeding is this!

He takes me to pieces: From

From fhoulder to flank
I'm lean and am lank;
My nofe, long and thin,
Grows down to my chin;
My chin will not stay,
But meets it half way:
My fingers, prolix,
Are ten crooked fticks:
He fwears my el-bows
Are two iron crows,
Or sharp-pointed rocks,
And wear out my fmocks:
To' fcape them, Sir Ar-

thur

Is forc'd to lie farther, Or his fides they would

gore

Like the tusk of a boar. Now, changing the scene,

But ftill to the Dean: He loves to be bitter at A lady illiterate ;

If he fees her but once, He'll fwear fhe's a dunce; Can tell by her looks

A hater of books;

Which spoils every fea

ture

Bestow'd her by nature; But fenfe gives a grace To the homelieft face: Wife books and reflexion Will mend the complexion : (A civil Divine ! I fuppofe, meaning mine!)

No lady who wants them, Can ever be handfome.

I guess well enough What he means by this ftuff:

He haws and he hums, At laft out it comes: What, Madam? No walking,

No reading, nor talking?
You're now
now in
in your
prime,

Make use of your time.
Confider, before
You come to threefcore,
How the huffies will fleer

What a figure she made In her tarnish'd brocade!" And then he grows

mild:

Come, be a good child:
If

you are inclin'd

To polish your mind,
Be ador'd by the men
Till threefcore and ten,
And kill with the spleen
The jades of fixteen;
I'll fhew you the way:
Read fix hours a-day.
The wits will frequent ye,
And think you but

twenty.

Thus was I drawn-in; Forgive me my fin. At breakfast he'll afk An account of my task. Put a word out of joint, Or miss but a point, He rages and frets, His manners forgets; And, as I am ferious, Is very imperious. No book for delight Must come in my fight; But, instead of new plays, Dull Bacon's Effays, And pore every day on That nafty Pantheon.

If I be not a drudge,
Let all the world judge.
'Twere better be blind,
Than thus be confin'd.
But, while in an ill tone,
I murder poor Milton,
The Dean, you will fwear,
Is at ftudy or prayer.
He's all the day faunter-
ing,

With labourers banter-
ing,
Among his colleagues,
A parcel of Teagues,
Whom he brings in

among us

And bribes with mundungus;

Hail, fellow, well met,
All dirty and wet;
Find out, if you can,
Who's mafter, who's

man;

Who makes the best fi

gure, The Dean or the digger; And which is the best At cracking a jeft. How proudly he talks Of zigzacks and walks; And all the day raves Of cradles and caves; And