Thy milk shall make us tubs of butter. The bishop with his foot may burn it,[15] But with his hand the Dean can churn it. How are the servants overjoy'd To see thy deanship thus employ'd! Instead of poring on a book, Providing butter for the cook! Three morning hours you toss and shake The bottle till your fingers ache; Hard is the toil, nor small the art, The butter from the whey to part: Behold a frothy substance rise; Be cautious or your bottle flies. The butter comes, our fears are ceased; And out you squeeze an ounce at least. Your reverence thus, with like success, (Nor is your skill or labour less,) When bent upon some smart lampoon, Will toss and turn your brain till noon; Which in its jumblings round the skull, Dilates and makes the vessel full: While nothing comes but froth at first, You think your giddy head will burst; But squeezing out four lines in rhyme, Are largely paid for all your time. But you have raised your generous mind To works of more exalted kind. Palladio was not half so skill'd in The grandeur or the art of building. Two temples of magnific size Attract the curious traveller's eyes, That might be envied by the Greeks; Raised up by you in twenty weeks: Here gentle goddess Cloacine Receives all offerings at her shrine. In separate cells, the he's and she's, Here pay their vows on bended knees: For 'tis profane when sexes mingle, And every nymph must enter single; And when she feels an inward motion, Come fill'd with reverence and devotion. The bashful maid, to hide her blush, Shall creep no more behind a bush; Here unobserved she boldly goes, As who should say, to pluck a rose,[16] Ye, who frequent this hallow'd scene, Be not ungrateful to the Dean; But duly, ere you leave your station, Offer to him a pure libation, Or of his own or Smedley's lay, Or billet-doux, or lock of hay: And, O! may all who hither come, Return with unpolluted thumb! Yet, when your lofty domes I praise I sigh to think of ancient days. Permit me then to raise my style, And sweetly moralize a-while. Thee, bounteous goddess Cloacine, To temples why do we confine? Forbid in open air to breathe, Why are thine altars fix'd beneath? When Saturn ruled the skies alone, (That golden age to gold unknown,) This earthly globe, to thee assign'd, Received the gifts of all mankind. Ten thousand altars smoking round, Were built to thee with offerings crown'd; And here thy daily votaries placed Their sacrifice with zeal and haste: The margin of a purling stream Sent up to thee a grateful steam; Though sometimes thou wert pleased to wink, If Naiads swept them from the brink: Or where appointing lovers rove, The shelter of a shady grove; Or offer'd in some flowery vale, Were wafted by a gentle gale, There many a flower abstersive grew, Thy favourite flowers of yellow hue; The crocus and the daffodil, The cowslip soft, and sweet jonquil. But when at last usurping Jove Old Saturn from his empire drove, Then gluttony, with greasy paws