The Parson's Case

That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic,     Can wish to die in strains heroic,     No real fortitude implies:     Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise.     Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife,     Thy busy, drudging scene of life,     Thy insolent, illiterate vicar,     Thy want of all-consoling liquor,     Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent,     Thy credit sunk, thy money spent,     Thy week made up of fasting-days,     Thy grate unconscious of a blaze,     And to complete thy other curses,     The quarterly demands of nurses,     Are ills you wisely wish to leave,     And fly for refuge to the grave;     And, O, what virtue you express,     In wishing such afflictions less!         But, now, should Fortune shift the scene,     And make thy curateship a dean:     Or some rich benefice provide,     To pamper luxury and pride;     With labour small, and income great;     With chariot less for use than state;     With swelling scarf, and glossy gown,     And license to reside in town:     To shine where all the gay resort,     At concerts, coffee-house, or court:     And weekly persecute his grace     With visits, or to beg a place:     With underlings thy flock to teach,     With no desire to pray or preach;     With haughty spouse in vesture fine,     With plenteous meals and generous wine;     Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease,     Thy years as numerous as thy days?