IN BERKELEY CHURCHYARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
HERE lies the earl of Suffolk's fool,
Men call'd him Dicky Pearce; His folly serv'd to make folks laugh, When wit and mirth were scarce.
Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone, What signifies to cry?
Dickies enough are still behind,
To laugh at by and by.
Buried June 18, 1728, aged 63.
MY LADY'S * LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN.
SURE never did man see A wretch like poorNancy, So teas'd day and night By a Dean and a Knight. To punish my sins, Sir Arthur begins, And gives me a wipe With Skinny and Snipe:
His malice is plain, Hallooing the dean. The Dean never stops, When he opens his chops; I'm quite overrun With rebus and pun.
Before he came here, To spunge for good cheer,
I sate with delight, From morning till night, With two bony thumbs Could rub my old gums, Or scratching my nose, And jogging my toes; But at present, forsooth, I must not rub a tooth. When my elbows he sees 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 sink in the spleen, A useless machine.
If he had his will, I should never sit still: He comes with his whims, I must 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, Through bogs and thro' briers, Where a cow would be startled,
I'm in spite of my beart led;
And, say what I will, Haul'd up every hill; Till, daggled and tatter'd, My spirits quite shatter'd, I return home at night, And fast, out of spite : For I'd rather be dead, Than it e'er should be said, I was better for him, In stomach or limb.
But now to my diet; No eating in quiet, He's still finding fault, Too sour or too salt: The wing of a chick I hardly can pick; But trash without measure I swallow with pleasure.
Next for his diversion, He rails at my person : What court breeding this is!
He takes me to pieces: From shoulder to flank I'm lean and am lank; My nose long and thin, Grows down to my chin; My chin will not stay, But meets it half way; My fingers, prolix, Are ten crooked sticks: He swears my el-bows Are two iron crows, Or sharp pointed rocks, And wear out my smocks: To 'scape them, sir Ar- thur Is forc'd to lie farther,
Or his sides they would Consider, before
Like the tusk of a boar. Now, changing the
But still to the Dean: He loves to be bitter at A lady illiterate;
If he sees her but once,
He'll swear she's a dunce;
You come to threescore, How the hussies will fleer Where'er you appear; "That silly old puss 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: If you are inclin'd
Through each line of her To polish your mind,
Her folly can trace; Which spoils every fea
Bestow'd her by nature; But sense gives a grace To the homeliest face: Wise books and reflection Will mend the plexion : (A civil divine! I suppose,meaning mine!) No lady who wants them, Can ever be handsome.
I guess well enough What he means by this stuff:
He haws and he hums, At last out it comes: What, madam? No walk- ing, No reading, nor talking? You're now in your prime, Make use of your time.
Be ador'd by the men Till threescore and ten, And kill with the spleen The jades of sixteen; I'll show you the way: Read six hours a day. The wits will frequent ye, And think you but twenty.
Thus was I drawn in; Forgive me my sin. At breakfast he'll ask 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 serious, Is very imperious. No book for delight Must come in my sight; But, instead of new plays, Dull Bacon's Essays, And pore every day on That nasty 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, TheDean, you will swear, Is at study or prayer. He's all the day saunter- ing,
With labourers banter- ing, Among his colleagues, A parcel of Teagues, Whom he brings in among
A hole where a rabbit Would scorn to inhabit, Dug out in an hour; He calls it a bower.
But, O! how we laugh, To see a wild calf Come, driven by heat, And foul the green seat; Or run helter-skelter To his arbour, for shelter, 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 so kind To leave something be- hind:
No more need be said on't, I smell when I tread on't. Dear friend, doctor Jinny,
If I could but win ye, Or Walmsley or Whaley, To come hither daily, Since Fortune, my foe, Will needs have it so, That I'm, by her frowns, Condemn'd to black
If your wives will permit
Come here, out of pity, To ease a poor lady, And beg her a playday. So may you be seen No more in the spleen!
May Walmsley give wine Like a hearty divine! May Whaley disgrace Dull Daniel's whey-face! And may your three spouses
Let you lie at friends houses!
A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728.
NYMPH and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight, Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight *; While each with stubbed knife remov'd the roots, That rais'd between the stones their daily shoots; As at their work they sate in counterview, With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew. Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly-flowing strain The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.
My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt, Than strongest weeds that grow these stones betwixt: My spud these nettles from the stones can part; No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart.
My love for gentle Dermot faster grows, Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose. Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O! Love rooted out, again will never grow.
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