My Lady's[1] Lamentation And Complaint Against The Dean

JULY 28, 1728     Sure never did man see     A wretch like poor Nancy,     So teazed 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:[2],     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 sat 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 pendulum;     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,     Thro' bogs and thro' briers,     Where a cow would be startled,     I'm in spite of my heart 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 halfway;     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 Arthur     Is forced to lie farther,     Or his sides they would gore     Like the tusks 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 shes a dunce;     Can tell by her looks     A hater of books;     Thro' each line of her face     Her folly can trace;     Which spoils every feature     Bestow'd her by nature;     But sense gives a grace     To the homeliest face:     Wise books and reflection     Will mend the complexion:     (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 walking,     No reading, nor talking?     You're now in your prime,     Make use of your time.     Consider, before     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 inclined     To polish your mind,     Be adored 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.     [To make you learn faster,     I'll be your schoolmaster     And leave you to choose     The books you peruse.[3]]         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.[4]     If I be not a drudge,     Let all the world judge.     'Twere better be blind,     Than thus be confined.         But while in an ill tone,     I murder poor Milton,     The Dean you will swear,     Is at study or prayer.     He's all the day sauntering,     With labourers bantering,     Among his colleagues,     A parcel of Teagues,     Whom he brings in among us     And bribes with mundungus.      [He little believes     How they laugh in their sleeves.]     Hail, fellow, well met,     All dirty and wet:     Find out, if you can,     Who's master, who's man;     Who makes the best figure,     The Dean or the digger;     And which is the best     At cracking a jest.     [Now see how he sits     Perplexing his wits     In search of a motto     To fix on his grotto.]     How proudly he talks     Of zigzags and walks,     And all the day raves     Of cradles and caves;     And boasts of his feats,     His grottos and seats;     Shows all his gewgaws,     And gapes for applause;     A fine occupation     For one in his station!     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 behind:     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 gowns;     No squire to be found     The neighbourhood round;     (For, under the rose,     I would rather choose those)     If your wives will permit ye,     Come here out of pity,     To ease a poor lady,     And beg her a play-day.     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!