Across a marsh he strode, with steadier gait Than Satan trod the Syrtis, at his fall, And perch'd himself, with his monastick weight, Upon the Convent-garden's wall;-- Whence, on the grounds within it, as he gaze'd, To find a spot where he might leave his load, He 'spied a _House_ so _little_, it seem'd raise'd More for Man's visits, than his fix'd abode;-- And Cynthia aided him to gaze his fill, For, now, she sought Endymion on the hill. Arise, Tarquinius![11] shew thy lofty face! While I describe, with dignity, the place. [11] _Tarquinius Superbus_, the last King of Rome;--he was a haughty Monarch, and built the _Cloaca maxima_. Snug in an English garden's shadiest spot, A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze; Lonely, and simple as a Ploughman's cot, Where Monarchs may unbend, who wish for ease. There sit Philosophers; and sitting read; And to some end apply the dullest pages; And pity the Barbarians, north of Tweed, Who scout these fabricks of the southern Sages. Sure, for an Edifice in estimation, Never was any less presuming seen! It shrinks, so modestly, from observation! And hides behind all sorts of evergreen;-- Like a coy Maid, design'd for filthy Man, Peeping, at his approach, behind her fan. Into this place, unnotice'd by beholders, The Duke of Limbs, most circumspectly, stole, And shot the Friar off his shoulders, Just like a sack of round Newcastle coal: Not taking any pains, Nor caring, in the least, How he deposited the Friar's remains, No more than if a Friar were a beast. No funeral, of which you ever heard, Was mark'd with ceremonies half so slight; For John was left, not like the dead interr'd, But, like the living, sitting bolt upright! Has no shrewd Reader, of one sex or t'other, Recurring to the facts already stated, Thought on a certain Roger?--that same brother Who hated John, and whom John hated? 'Tis, now, a necessary thing to say That, at this juncture, Roger wasn't well; Poor Man! he had been rubbing, all the day, His stomach with coarse towels: And clapping trenchers, hot as hell, Upon his bowels; Where spasms were kicking up a furious frolick, Afflicting him with mulligrubs and cholick. He also had imbibe'd, to sooth his pains, Of _pulvis rhei_ very many grains; And to the garden's deepest shade was bent, To give, quite privily, his sorrows vent: When, _there_,--alive and merry to appearance-- He 'spied his ancient foe, by the moon's light!-- Who sat erect, with so much perseverance, It look'd as if he kept his post in spite. A case it is of piteous distress, If, carrying a secret grief about, We wish to bury it in a recess, And find another there, who keeps us out.