subject of the poem, is an account of one of these casual visits.
When to my house you come, dear dean,
Your humble friend to entertain,
Through dirt and mire along the street,
You find no scraper for your feet;
At which you stamp and storm and swell,
Which serves to clean your feet as well.
By steps ascending to the hall,
All torn to rags by boys and ball,
With scatter'd fragments on the floor;
A sad uneasy parlour door,
Besmear'd with chalk, and carv'd with knives,
(A plague upon all careless wives)
Are the next sights you must expect,
But do not think they are my neglect.
Ah that these evils were the worst!
The parlour still is farther curst.
To enter there if you advance,
If in you get, it is by chance.
How oft by turns have you and I
Said thus — "Let me — no —let me try —
This turn will open it I'll engage" —
You push me from it in a rage.
Turning, twisting, forcing, fumbling,
Stamping, flaring, fuming, grumbling,
At length it opens — in we go —
How glad are we to find it so!
Conquests through pains and dangers please,
Much more than those attained with ease.
Are you disposed to take a seat;
The instant that it feels your weight,
