"Well, I shall think of that no more,
If you'll be sure to come at four."
The doctor now obeys the summons,
Likes both his company and commons;
Displays his talents, sits till ten;75
Next day invited comes again;
Soon grows domestick, seldom fails
Either at morning or at meals:
Came early, and departed late;
In short, the gudgeon took the bait.80
My lord would carry on the jest,
And down to Windsor takes his guest.
Swift much admires the place and air,
And longs to be a canon there;
In summer round the park to ride,85
In winter — never to reside.
A canon! that's a place too mean:
No, doctor, you shall be a dean;
Two dozen canons round your stall,
And you the tyrant o'er them all:90
You need but cross the Irish seas,
To live in plenty, power, and ease.
Poor Swift departs; and what is worse,
With borrow'd money in his purse,
Travels at least a hundred leagues,95
And suffers numberless fatigues.
Suppose him now a dean complete,
Demurely lolling in his seat;
The silver verge, with decent pride,
Stuck underneath his cushion side;100
Suppose him gone through all vexations,
Patents, instalments, abjurations,
First fruits and tenths, and chapter-treats;
Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats —
