(Best suiting with your private ends) Will suit your general contriving, And keep the household snug and thriving. In all affairs of compliment Not meeting with your full consent, Contrive to knock up quite a pother, And set each party 'gainst the other, Raising a feud so fierce and wild As never can be reconciled; The best of friends make out neglectful, And 'ev'ry think that's disrespectful;' Nay, should the deuce himself so twist it That you 'not no how' can't resist it, You'll turn the kindest invitations, Into malignant accusations! And thus both parties, lost in wonder, Of course you keep quite poles asunder.-- Instruct 'your people' when to roam, Or kindly 'let em' be 'at home;' Where, for the present, while we leave them, May no curst tell-tale undeceive them! To be in lodgings when your lot, And there's no shoe-boy to be got, You'll clean your Master's, without hurting At all--the bottom of the curtain; Or, if you have the exceeding nerve, Your Lady's apron then may serve. Scrape not your own, like vulgar mortals, Standing outside your Master's portals; But of your cleanliness to vapour, Use the hearth-rug, and save the scraper! Ask not for leave each rambling bout, The less your fear to be found 'out;' Though p'raps you've had a bout of kissing, And no one knows you've e'er been missing: All that your fellow-servants know, You left but "scarce a min't ago." Snuff candles with your fingers' ends; And for the stench to make amends, Think that your Master scarcely suffers The least expense for polished snuffers; Throw down the snuff upon the floor, And what can man, or Footman, more? It quite an easy thing to scoff is, But candle-snuffing's quite an office! Contrive it, when you know you're wanted, To shun the room as if 'twere haunted; But when there's private conversation, Rush in, a downright congregation! If left unchid, then all is well; If not, then swear you heard the bell. Secrets that 'drop' from gents and ladies, The best of all your stock in trade is; While you, a course more cautious steering, Let nothing 'fall' within their hearing. Indiff'rent still to praise or blame, You soar above the sense of shame. "The tea is good, the coffee ain't;" Then give 'em 'grounds' for the complaint. No matter if the pot boils over, Come what come may, you're still in clover: Swear you took pains, 'more than a little,' To please their palates to a tittle. The march of blame begins to halt, They pardon beg for finding fault, And "ne'er again will blame in haste, But all their mouths were out of taste!" Thus you're repaid for all your trouble, Enjoy the 'squeak,' nor burst the 'bubble.' You cry, "Enough, then, for the present;"