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ЕРІТАРН,

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.

JULY 28, 1728.

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,

* Lady Acheson.- F.

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

gore

Like the tusk of a boar. Now, changing the

scene,

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;

Can tell by her looks

A hater of books;

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,

face

Her folly can trace; Which spoils every fea

ture

com

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.

VOL. XI.

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..

H

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

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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

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If your wives will permit

ye,

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

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728.

DERMOT, SHEELAH.

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.

DERMOT.

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.

SHEELAH.

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.

* Sir Arthur Acheson. F.

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