LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT
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 wipe With Skinny and Snipe +: His malice is plain, Hallooing the Dean. The Dean never stops, When he opens his chops; I'm quite over-run With rebus and pun.
Before he came here To fpunge for good cheer, I fate with delight, From morning till night, With two bony thumbs Could rub
my old gums,
*Lady Achefon.
+ See p. 55.
Or fcratching my nose, And jogging my toes; But at prefent, forsooth, 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 pendu lum;
He trips up my props, And down my chin drops, From my head to my
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 must move my limbs;
I cannot be fweet Without ufing my feet; To lengthen my breath, He tires me to death. By the worst of all Squires, Through bogs and through briers,
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;
Where a cow would be My chin will not stay,
I'm in fpite of my heart led; And, fay what I will, Haul'd up every hill; Till, daggled and tatter'd, My fpirits quite shatter'd, I return home at night, And faft, out of spite: For I'd rather be dead, Than it e'er should be faid, I was better for him In ftomach or limb. But now to my diet; No eating in quiet, He's ftill finding fault, Too four or too falt: The wing of a chick I hardly can pick; But trash without measure I fwallow with pleasure. Next for his diverfion, He rails at my perfon:
But meets it half way: My fingers, prolix,
Are ten crooked sticks: He swears my el-bows Are two iron crows, Or fharp-pointed rocks, And wear out my fmocks: To 'fcape them, Sir Arthur Is forc'd to lie farther, Or his fides they would gore Like the tufk 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;
Through each line of her face
Her folly can trace;
Which spoils every feature Beftow'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 walk- ing,
No reading, nor talking? You're now in your prime, Make use of your time. Confider, before You come to threescore, How the huffies will fleer Where'er you appear: "That filly old puss Would fain be like us. What a figure fhe 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 breakfaft 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, inftead of new plays, Dull Bacon's Essays, 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 fauntering, With labourers bantering, Among his colleagues, A parcel of Teagues, Whom he brings in among
Hail fellow, well met, All dirty and wet : Find out, if you can, Who's mafter, who's man; Who makes the best figure, 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 boasts of his feats, His grottos and feats; Shews all his gew-gaws, And gapes for applause; A fine occupation For one in his station!
A hole where a rabbit Would fcorn to inhabit, Dug out in an hour; He calls it a bower.
But, oh! how welaugh To see a wild calf Come, driven by heat, And foul the green seat ; Or run helter-skelter 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 fomething behind:
No more need be faid 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 fo, That I'm, by her frowns, Condemn'd to black gowns;
No 'Squire to be found The neighbourhood round (For, under the rose,
I would rather chufe those); If your wives will permit
Come here, out of pity, To eafe 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 !
A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728.
DERMOT, SHEELAH.
ANYMPH and fwain, Sheelah and Dermot hight,
Who wont to weed the court of Gosford
While each with ftubbed knife remov'd the roots, That rais'd between the ftones their daily fhoots; As at their work they fate in counterview, With mutual beauty fmit, their paffion grew. Sing, heavenly Muse, in fweetly-flowing strain The foft endearments of the nymph and swain. DERMOT.
My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt,
Than strongest weeds that grow these stones betwixt : My fpud thefe nettles from the ftones can part; No knife fo keen to weed thee from my heart.
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