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Here lies the earl of Suffolk's fool,

Men call's 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.


JULY 28, 1728.

SURE never did man see His malice is plain,
A wretch like poorNancy, Hallooing the dean.
So teas'd day and night

The Dean never stops,
By a Dean and a Knight. When he opens his chops;
To punish my sins, I'm quite overrun
Sir Arthur begins,

With rebus and pun. And gives me a wipe Before he came here, With Skinny and Snipe: To spunge for good cheer,

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I sate with delight, And, say what I will, From morning till night, Haul'd up every hill; With two bony thumbs Till, daggled and tatter'd, Could rub my old gums, My spirits quite shatterid, Or scratching my nose,

I return home at night, And jogging my toes ;

And fast, out of spite : But at present, forsooth, For I'd rather be dead, I must not rub a tooth. Thanit e'er should be said, When


elbows he sees I was better for him, Held up by my knees, In stomach or limb. My arms, like two props, But now to my diet; Supporting my chops,

No eating in quiet, And just as I handle 'em He's still finding fault, Moving all like a pendu- Too sour or too salt: lum;

The wing of a chick He trips up my props,

I hardly can pick; And down my chin drops, But trash without measure From my head to my I swallow with pleasure. heels,

Next for his diversion, Like a clock without He rails at my person : wheels;

What court breeding this I sink in the spleen,

is ! A useless machine. He takes me to pieces:

If he had his will, From shoulder to flank I should never sit still: I'm lean and am lank; He comes with his whims, My nose long and thin, I must move my limbs; Grows down to my chin; I cannot be sweet

My chin will not stay, Without using my feet; But meets it half way; To lengthen my breath, My fingers, prolix, He tires me to death. Are ten crooked sticks : By the worst of all squires, He swears my el--bows Through bogs and thro' Are two iron crows, briers,

Or sharp pointed rocks, Where a cow would be And wear out my sníocks: startled,

To 'scape them, sir ArI'm in spite of my beart thur

Is forc'd to lie farther,

led i

Or his sides they would consider, before gore

You come to threescore, Like the tusk of a boar. How the hussies will feer Now, changing the Where'er you appear; scene,

“That silly old puss But still to the Dean : Would fain be like us: He loves to be bitter at What a figure she made A lady illiterate; In her tarnish'd brocade!" If he sees her but once, And then he

grows He'll swear she's a dunce;

mild : Can tell by her looks Come, be a good child: A hater of books;

If you are inclin'd Through each line of her To polish your mind, face

Be ador'd by the men Her folly can trace;

Till threescore and ten, Which spoils every fea- And kill with the spleen ture

The jades of sixteen; Bestow'd her by nature;

I'll show


way : But sense gives a grace

Read six hours a day. To the homeliest face: The wits will frequent ye, Wise books and reflection And thinkyou but twenty. Will mend the

Thus was I drawn in; plexion :

Forgive me my sin. (A civil divine!

At breakfast he'll ask I suppose,meaning minel) An account of my task. No lady who wants them, Put a word out of joint, Can ever be handsome. Or miss but a point, I guess well enough He


and frets, What he means by this His manners forgets; stuff:

And, as I am serious,
He haws and he hums, Is very imperious.
At last out it comes :

No book for delight What, madam: Nowalk- Must come in my sight; ing,

But, instead of new plays, No reading, nor talking? Dull Bacon's Essays, You're now in your prime, And pore every day on Make use of your tiine. That nasty Pantheon


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If I be not a drudge, A hole where a rabbit Let all the world judge. Would scorn to inhabit, 'Twere better be blind, Dug out in an hour; Than thus be confin'd. He calls it a bower.

But, while in anilltone, But, O! how we laugh, I murder poor Milton, To see a wild calf TheDean, you will swear, Come, driven by heat, Is at study or prayer.

And foul the green seat; He's all the day saunter. Or run helter-skelter ing,

To his arbour, for shelter, With labourers banter. Where all goes to ruin ing,

The dean has been doing: Among his colleagues, The girls of the village A parcel of Teagues, Come flocking for pillage, Whom he bringsin among Pull down the fine briers

And thorns, to make fires; And bribes with mundun- But yet are so kind gus;

To leave something beHail, fellow, well met, hind: All dirty and wet: No more need be said on’t, Find out, if you can, I smell when I tread on't, Who's master, who's man; Dear friend, doctor Who makes the best fi- Jinny, gure,

If I could but win ye, The Dean or the digger; Or Walmsley or Whaley, And which is the best To come hither daily, At cracking a jest. Since Fortune, my foe, How proudly he talks

Will needs have it so, Of zigzags and walks; That I'm, by her frowns, And all the day raves Condemn'd to black Of cradles and caves; gowns; And boasts of his feats, No 'squire to be found His grottoes and seats; The neighbourhood Shows all his gewgaws, round; And

gapes for applause; (For, under the rose, A fine occupation

I would rather choose For one in his station!


If your wives will permit May Walmsley give wine ye,

Like a hearty divine! Coine here, out of pity, May Whaley disgrace To ease a poor lady, Dull Daniel's whey-face! And bey her a playday. And may your three So may you be seen

spouses No more in the spleen!

lie at friends houses!

Let you





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



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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