LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT
against the DEA N.
URE never did man fee
A wretch like poor Nancy,
So teaz'd day and night
By a Dean and a Knight;
To punish my fins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe
With Skinny and Snipe:†
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean,
The Dean never ftops,
When he opens his chops;
I'm quite over-run
With rebus and pun.
Before he came here
To fpunge for good cheer,
I fat with delight,
From morning till night,
* Lady Achefon, wife to Sir Arthur Acheson. The Dean used to call her by thofe names.
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my own gums,'
Or fcratching my nose,
And jogging my toes;
But at prefent, forfooth,
I must not rub a tooth:
When my elbows he fees
Held up by my knees,
My arms, like two props,
Supporting my, chops,
And just as I handle 'em
Moving all like a pendulum;
He trips up my props,
And down my chin drops,
From my head to my heels,
Like a clock without wheels;
I fink in the spleen,
An useless machine.
If he had his will,
I fhould never fit ftill:
He comes with his whims,
I muft move my limbs;
I cannot be sweet
Without using my feet;
To lengthen my breath
He tires me to death.
By the worst of all Squires,
Thro' bogs and thro' briers,
Where a cow would be ftartled,
I'm in fpite of my heart led:
And, fay what I will,
Haul'd up every hill;
"Till, daggled and tatter'd,
My fpirit's 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,
No eating in quiet,
He's fill finding fault,
Too four or too falt:
The wing of a chick
I hardly can pick,
But traf
without measure
Į fwallow with pleasure.
Next, for his diverfion,
He rails at my perfon:
What court-breeding this is?
He takes me to pieces.
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 swears my el----bows
Are two iron crows,
Or fharp pointed rocks,
And wear out my fmocks:
To 'scape them, Sir Arthur
Is forc'd to lie farther,
Or his fides they would gore
Like the tufk of a boar.
Now, changing the fcene,
But ftill to the Dean:
He loves to be bitter at
A lady illiterate;
If he fees her but once,
He'll swear fhe's a dunce
Can tell by her looks
A hater of books:
Thro' each line of her face
Her folly can trace;
Which spoils ev'ry feature
Beftow'd her by nature,
But sense gives a grace
To the homelieft face:
Wife books and reflection
Will mend the complexion.
(A civil Divine!
I suppose 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 in your prime,
Make ufe of your time.
Confider, before
You come to threescore,
How the huffies will fleer
Where'er you appear:
That filly old pufs
Would fain be like us,
What a figure she made
In her tarnish'd brocade?
And then he grows mild: Come, be a good child:
you are inclin'd
To polish your mind,
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