M Y

AGAINST

THE DEAN.

SURE

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.

1728.

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

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 must move my limbs;

I cannot

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,

What court-breeding is

this!

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 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,

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

us

And bribes with mun

dungus).

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;