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IN BERKELEY CHURCHYARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
Here lies the earl of Suffolk's fool,
Men call's him Dicky Pearce ;
When wit and mirth were scarce,
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 His malice is plain,
The Dean never stops,
With rebus and pun. And gives me a wipe Before he came here, With Skinny and Snipe: To spunge for good cheer,
Lady Acheson.. F.
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
I forc'd to lie farther,
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;
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,
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
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!
A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.
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,
* Sir Arthur Acheson. F.