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. No book for delight Must come in my sight; But, instead of new plays, Dull Bacon's Essays, And pore every day on That nasty Pantheon.[4] If I be not a drudge, Let all the world judge. 'Twere better be blind, Than thus be confined. But while in an ill tone, I murder poor Milton, The Dean you will swear, Is at study or prayer. He's all the day sauntering, With labourers bantering, Among his colleagues, A parcel of Teagues, Whom he brings in among us And bribes with mundungus. [He little believes How they laugh in their sleeves.] Hail, fellow, well met, All dirty and wet: Find out, if you can, Who's master, who's man; Who makes the best figure, The Dean or the digger; And which is the best At cracking a jest. [Now see how he sits Perplexing his wits In search of a motto To fix on his grotto.] How proudly he talks Of zigzags and walks, And all the day raves Of cradles and caves; And boasts of his feats, His grottos and seats; Shows all his gewgaws, And gapes for applause; A fine occupation For one in his station! A hole where a rabbit Would scorn to inhabit, Dug out in an hour; He calls it a bower. But, O! how we laugh, To see a wild calf Come, driven by heat, And foul the green seat; Or run helter-skelter, To his arbour for shelter, Where all goes to ruin The Dean has been doing: The girls of the village Come flocking for pillage, Pull down the fine briers And thorns to make fires; But yet are so kind To leave something behind: No more need be said on't, I smell when I tread on't. Dear friend, Doctor Jinny. If I could but win ye, Or Walmsley or Whaley, To come hither daily, Since fortune, my foe, Will needs have it so, That I'm, by her frowns, Condemn'd to black gowns; No squire to be found The neighbourhood round; (For, under the rose, I would rather choose those) If your wives will permit ye, Come here out of pity, To ease a poor lady, And beg her a play-day. So may you be seen No more in the spleen; May Walmsley give wine Like a hearty divine! May Whaley disgrace Dull Daniel's whey-face! And may your three spouses Let you lie at friends' houses! [Footnote 1: Lady Acheson.] [Footnote 2: See _ante_, p.94 _W.--W. E. B_.] [Footnote 3: Added from the Dean's manuscript.] [Footnote 4: "The Pantheon," containing the mythological systems of the Greeks and Romans, by Andrew Tooke, A.M., first published, 1713. The little work became very popular. The copy I have is of the thirty-sixth edition, with plates, 1831. It is still in demand, as it deserves to be. Compare Leigh Hunt's remark on the illustrations to the "Pantheon," cited by Mr. Coleridge in his notes to "Don Juan," Canto I, St. xli, Byron's Works, edit. 1903.--_W. E. B._] A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 1728 DERMOT, SHEELAH