My Lady's Lamentation and Complaint Against the Dean

Sure never did man seeA wretch like poor Nancy,So teazed day and nightBy a Dean and a Knight.To punish my sins,Sir Arthur begins,And gives me a wipe,With Skinny and Snipe:,His malice is plain,Hallooing the Dean.

The Dean never stops,When he opens his chops;I'm quite overrunWith rebus and pun.Before he came here,To spunge for good cheer,I sat with delight,From morning till night,With two bony thumbsCould rub my old gums,Or scratching my noseAnd jogging my toes;But at present, forsooth,I must not rub a tooth.When my elbows he seesHeld up by my knees,My arms, like two props,Supporting my chops,And just as I handle 'emMoving all like a pendulum;He trips up my props,And down my chin dropsFrom 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 whimsI must move my limbs;I cannot be sweetWithout 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 chickI hardly can pick:But trash without measureI 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 flankI'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--bowsAre two iron crows,Or sharp pointed rocks,And wear out my smocks:To 'scape them, Sir ArthurIs forced to lie farther,Or his sides they would goreLike the tusks of a boar.Now changing the sceneBut still to the Dean;He loves to be bitter atA lady illiterate;If he sees her but once,He'll swear she’s a dunce;Can tell by her looksA hater of books;Thro' each line of her faceHer folly can trace;Which spoils every featureBestow'd her by nature;But sense gives a graceTo the homeliest face:Wise books and reflectionWill mend the complexion:(A civil divine!I suppose, meaning mine!)No lady who wants them,Can ever be handsome.I guess well enoughWhat 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, beforeYou come to threescore,How the hussies will fleerWhere'er you appear;"That silly old pussWould fain be like us:What a figure she madeIn her tarnish'd brocade!"And then he grows mild:Come, be a good child:If you are inclinedTo polish your mind,Be adored by the menTill threescore and ten,And kill with the spleenThe jades of sixteen;I'll show you the way;Read six hours a-day.The wits will frequent ye,And think you but twenty.I'll be your schoolmasterAnd leave you to chooseThus was I drawn in;Forgive me my sin.At breakfast he'll askAn 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 delightMust come in my sight;But, instead of new plays,Dull Bacon's Essays,And pore every day onThat nasty Pantheon.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 usAnd bribes with mundungus.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 bestAt cracking a jest.Perplexing his witsIn search of a mottoHow proudly he talksOf zigzags and walks,And all the day ravesOf cradles and caves;And boasts of his feats,His grottos and seats;Shows all his gewgaws,And gapes for applause;A fine occupationFor one in his station!A hole where a rabbitWould scorn to inhabit,Dug out in an hour;He calls it a bower.But, O! how we laugh,To see a wild calfCome, driven by heat,And foul the green seat;Or run helter-skelter,To his arbour for shelter,Where all goes to ruinThe Dean has been doing:The girls of the villageCome flocking for pillage,Pull down the fine briersAnd thorns to make fires;But yet are so kindTo 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 foundThe 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 seenNo more in the spleen;May Walmsley give wineLike a hearty divine!May Whaley disgraceDull Daniel's whey-face!And may your three spousesLet you lie at friends' houses!