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 mifs but a point,
He rages and frets,
His manners forgets;
And, as I am ferious,
Is very imperious.
No book for delight
Muft come in my fight;
But, instead of new plays,
Dull Bacon's Effays,
And pore ev'ry 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 pray❜r.
He's all the day faunt'ring,
With labourers bant'ring,
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,
Whofe mafter, whofe man;
Who makes the best figure,
The Dean or the digger;
And which is the best
At cracking a jest.
How proudly he talks
Of zigzacks and walks
And all the day raves
Of cradles and caves;
And boafts of his feats,
His grottos and feats;
Shews all his gew---gaws,
And gapes for applause?
A fine occupation
For one in his ftation!
But, Oh, how we laugh,
To fee a wild calf
Come, driven by heat,
And foul the green feat
Or run helter-fkelter
To his arbor for fhelter,
Where all goes to ruin
The Dean has been doing.
The girls of the village
Come flocking for pillage,
Pull down the fine briers,
And thorns, to make fires
But yet are fo kind
To leave something behind:
No more need be said on't,
I fmell when I tread on't.
Dear friend, Doctor Jenny,
If I could but win ye,
Or Walmsley or Whaley,
To come hither daily,
Since Fortune, my foe,
Will needs have it so,
X
That I'm, by her frowns,
Condemn'd to black gowns;
No 'Squire to be found
The neighbourhood round,
(For, under the rofe,
I would rather chufe thofe :)
If your wives will permit ye,
Come here out of pity,
To ease a poor Lady,
And beg her a play-day.
So may you be feen
No more in the spleen:
May Walmsley give wine,
Like a hearty divine;
May Whaley difgrace
Dull Daniel's whey-face;
And may your three spouses
Let you lie at friends houses.
Written in the Year MDCCXXVIII.
GOOD caufe have I to fing and vapour,
For I am landlord to the Drapier: He, that of ev'ry ear's the charmer, Now condefcends to be my farmer, And grace my villa with his strains; Lives fuch a Bard on British plains? No; not in all the British Court; For none but witlings there refort, Whose names and works (tho' dead) are Immortal by the Dunciad;
And fure, as monument of brass,
Their fame to future times fhall pafs,
How, with a weakly warbling tongue,
Of Brazen Knight they vainly fung:
A fubject for their genius fit;
He dares defy both sense and wit.
What dares he not? He can, we know it,
A laureat make that is no poet;
A judge, without the least pretence
To common law, or common sense;
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