Let others with fanatick face
Talk of their milk for babes of grace;
From tubs their smiffling nonsense utter;
Thy milk shall make us tubs of butter.
The bishop with his foot may burn it[1],
But with his hand the dean can churn it.
How are the servants overjoyed
To see thy deanship thus employ'd!
Instead of poring on a book,
Providing butter for the cook!
Three morning hours you toss and shake
The bottle till your fingers ake:
Hard is the toil, nor small the art,
The butter from the whey to part:
Behold a frothy substance rise;
Be cautious, or your bottle flies.
The butter comes, our fears are ceas'd;
And out you squeeze an ounce at least.
Your reverence thus, with like success,
(Nor is your skill or labour less)
When bent upon some smart lampoon,
Will toss and turn your brain till noon;
Which, in its jumblings round the skull.
Dilates and makes the vessel full:
While nothing comes but froth at first,
You think your giddy head will burst;
But, squeezing out four lines in rhyme,
Are largely paid for all your time.
But you have rais'd your generous mind
To works of more exalted kind.
Palladio was not half so skill'd in
The grandeur or the art of building.
- ↑ It is a common saying, when the milk burns to, that the devil or the bishop has set his foot in it.
