[TK]
The Reasons That Induced Dr. S. |
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| The Doctor in a clean starch’d band,° | priest’s collar | |
| His Golden Snuff box in his hand, | ||
| With care his Di’mond Ring displays | ||
| And Artfull° shews its various Rays, | carefully | |
| While Grave he stalks down —— Street | ||
| His dearest Betty —— to meet. | ||
| Long had he waited for this Hour, | ||
| Nor° gain’d Admittance to the Bower, | and did not | |
| Had jok’d and punn’d, and swore and writ, | ||
| Try’d all his Galantry and Wit, | ||
| Had told her oft what part he bore | ||
| In Oxford’s Schemes in days of yore, | ||
| But Bawdy,° Politicks nor Satyr | obscenity | |
| Could move this dull hard hearted Creature. | ||
| Jenny her Maid could taste° a Rhyme | admire | |
| And greiv’d to see him lose his Time, | ||
| Had kindly whisper’d in his Ear, | ||
| For twice two pound you enter here, | ||
| My lady vows without that Summ | ||
| It is in vain you write or come. | ||
| The Destin’d Offering now he brought | ||
| And in a paradise of thought | ||
| With a low Bow approach’d the Dame | ||
| Who smileing heard him preach his Flame. | ||
| His Gold she takes (such proofes as these | ||
| Convince most unbeleiving shees) | ||
| And in her trunk rose up to lock it | ||
| (Too wise to trust it in her pocket) | ||
| And then return’d with Blushing Grace | ||
| Expects the Doctor’s warm Embrace. | ||
| But now this is the proper place | ||
| Where morals Stare me in the Face | ||
| And for the sake of fine Expression | ||
| I’m forc’d to make a small digression. | ||
| Alas for wretched Humankind, | ||
| With Learning Mad, with wisdom blind! | ||
| The Ox thinks he’s for Saddle fit | ||
| (As long ago Freind Horace° writ) | Roman satirical poet | |
| And Men their Talents still mistakeing, | ||
| The stutterer fancys his is speaking. | ||
| With Admiration oft we see | ||
| Hard Features heighten’d by Toupée, | ||
| The Beau° affects° the Politician, | fashionable man — pretends to be | |
| Wit is the citizen’s Ambition, | ||
| Poor Pope Philosophy displays on | ||
| With so much Rhime and little reason, | ||
| And thô he argues ne’er so long | ||
| That, all is right, his Head is wrong. | ||
| None strive to know their proper merit | ||
| But strain for Wisdom, Beauty, Spirit, | ||
| And lose the Praise that is their due | ||
| While they’ve th’impossible in view. | ||
| So have I seen the Injudicious Heir | ||
| To add one Window the whole House impair. | ||
| Instinct the Hound does better teach | ||
| Who never undertook to preach, | ||
| The frighted Hare from Dogs does run | ||
| But not attempts to bear a Gun. | ||
| Here many Noble thoughts occur | ||
| But I prolixity° abhor, | wordiness | |
| And will persue th’instructive Tale | ||
| To shew the Wise in some things fail. | ||
| The Reverend Lover with surprize | ||
| Peeps in her Bubbys,° and her Eyes, | breasts | |
| And kisses both, and trys—and trys. | ||
| The Evening in this Hellish Play, | ||
| Beside his Guineas° thrown away, | gold coins | |
| Provok’d the Preist to that degree | ||
| He swore, “the Fault is not in me. | ||
| Your damn’d Close stool° so near my Nose, | chamberpot | |
| Your Dirty Smock, and Stinking Toes | ||
| Would make a Hercules as tame | ||
| As any Beau° that you can name.” | fashionable man | |
| The nymph° grown Furious roar’d “by God | young woman | |
| The blame lyes all in Sixty odd”° | (years) | |
| And scornfull pointing to the door | ||
| Cry’d, “Fumbler see my Face no more.” | ||
| “With all my Heart I’ll go away | ||
| But nothing done, I’ll nothing pay. | ||
| Give back the Money—How, cry’d she, | ||
| [I lock’d it in the Trunk stands there | ||
| And break it open if you dare.] | ||
| Would you palm such a cheat on me! | ||
| For poor 4 pound to roar and bellow, | ||
| Why sure you want some new Prunella?” | ||
| [What if your Verses have not sold, | ||
| Must therefore I return your Gold? | ||
| Perhaps your have no better Luck in | ||
| The Knack of Rhyming than of — | ||
| I won’t give back one single Crown, | ||
| To wash your Band, or turn your Gown.] | ||
| “I’ll be reveng’d you saucy Quean” | ||
| (Replys the disapointed Dean) | ||
| “I’ll so describe your dressing room | ||
| The very Irish shall not come.” | ||
| She answer’d short, “I’m glad you’l write, | ||
| You’l furnish paper when I shite.” |