I cannot be sweet
Without using my feet;
To lengthen my breath,
He tires me to death. 
By the worst of all squires,
Thro’ bogs and thro’ briers,
Where a cow would be startled,
I’m in spite of my heart led;
And, say what I will,
Haul’d up every hill;
Till, daggled and tatter’d,
My spirits quite shatter’d,
I return home at night,
And fast, out of spite: 
For I’d rather be dead,
Than it e’er should be said,
I was better for him,
In stomach or limb. 
  But now to my diet;
No eating in quiet,
He’s still finding fault,
Too sour or too salt: 
The wing of a chick
I hardly can pick: 
But trash without measure
I swallow with pleasure. 
  Next, for his diversion,
He rails at my person. 
What court breeding this is! 
He takes me to pieces: 
From shoulder to flank
I’m lean and am lank;
My nose, long and thin,
Grows down to my chin;
My chin will not stay,
But meets it halfway;
My fingers, prolix,
Are ten crooked sticks: 
He swears my el—­bows
Are two iron crows,
Or sharp pointed rocks,
And wear out my smocks: 
To ’scape them, Sir Arthur
Is forced to lie farther,
Or his sides they would gore
Like the tusks of a boar. 
  Now changing the scene
But still to the Dean;
He loves to be bitter at
A lady illiterate;
If he sees her but once,
He’ll swear she’s a dunce;
Can tell by her looks
A hater of books;
Thro’ each line of her face
Her folly can trace;
Which spoils every feature
Bestow’d her by nature;
But sense gives a grace
To the homeliest face: 
Wise books and reflection
Will mend the complexion: 
(A civil divine! 
I suppose, meaning mine!)
No lady who wants them,
Can ever be handsome. 
  I guess well enough
What he means by this stuff: 
He haws and he hums,
At last out it comes: 
What, madam?  No walking,
No reading, nor talking? 
You’re now in your prime,
Make use of your time. 
Consider, before
You come to threescore,
How the hussies will fleer
Where’er you appear;
“That silly old puss
Would fain be like us: 
What a figure she made
In her tarnish’d brocade!”
  And then he grows mild: 
Come, be a good child: 
If you are inclined
To polish your mind,
Be adored by the men
Till threescore and ten,
And kill with the spleen
The jades of sixteen;
I’ll show you the way;
Read six hours a-day. 
The wits will frequent ye,
And think you but twenty.
[To make you learn faster,
I’ll be your schoolmaster
And leave you to choose
The books you peruse.[3]]
  Thus was I drawn in;
Forgive me my sin. 
At breakfast he’ll ask
An account of my task. 
Put a word out of joint,
Or miss but a point,
He rages and frets,
His manners forgets;
And as I am serious,
Is very imperious.