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; 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