But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said,
Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed.
There — but 'tis endless to write down
All the amusements of the town;
And spouse will think herself quite undone,
To trudge to Connor[1] from sweet London;
And care we must our wives to please,
Or else — we shall be ill at ease.
You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack,
'Tis only some convenient tack,
Some parsonage house, with garden sweet,
To be my late, my last retreat;
A decent church, close by its side,
There, preaching, praying, to reside;
And, as my time securely rolls,
To save my own and other souls.
DEAR Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,
Where wit in all its glory shines;
Where compliments, with all their pride,
Are by their numbers dignified:
I hope, to make you yet as clean
As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean.
I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall,
And may be something else withal;
- ↑ The bishoprick of Connor is united to that of Down; but there are two deans.
