The house accounts are daily rising;
  So much his stay doth swell the bills: 
My dearest life, it is surprising,
  How much he eats, how much he swills.

His brace of puppies how they stuff! 
  And they must have three meals a-day,
Yet never think they get enough;
  His horses too eat all our hay.

O! if I could, how I would maul
  His tallow face and wainscot paws,
His beetle brows, and eyes of wall,
  And make him soon give up the cause!

Must I be every moment chid
  With [2] Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean?
O! that I could but once be rid
  Of this insulting tyrant Dean!

[Footnote 1:  The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq., in the county of Tyrone.]

[Footnote 2:  The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names.  See “My Lady’s Lamentation,” next page.—­W.  E. B.]

ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL

Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I;
  Though none can tell which of us first shall die.

ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT

We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
  May’st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.

EPITAPH IN BERKELEY CHURCH-YARD, GLOUCESTERSHIRE

Here lies the Earl of Suffolk’s fool,
  Men call’d him Dicky Pearce;
His folly served to make folks laugh,
  When wit and mirth were scarce.

Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
  What signifies to cry? 
Dickies enough are still behind,
  To laugh at by and by.

Buried, June 18, 1728, aged 63.

MY LADY’S[1] LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT AGAINST THE DEAN

JULY 28, 1728

Sure never did man see
A wretch like poor Nancy,
So teazed day and night
By a Dean and a Knight. 
To punish my sins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe,
With Skinny and Snipe:[2],
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean.

The Dean never stops,
When he opens his chops;
I’m quite overrun
With rebus and pun. 
  Before he came here,
To spunge for good cheer,
I sat with delight,
From morning till night,
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my old gums,
Or scratching my nose
And jogging my toes;
But at present, forsooth,
I must not rub a tooth. 
When my elbows he sees
Held up by my knees,
My arms, like two props,
Supporting my chops,
And just as I handle ’em
Moving all like a pendulum;
He trips up my props,
And down my chin drops
From 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 whims
I must move my limbs;