Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/254

 But now she wanes, and, as 'tis said, Keeps sober hours, and goes to bed. There — but 'tis endless to write down All the amusements of the town; And spouse will think herself quite undone, To trudge to Connor from sweet London; And care we must our wives to please, Or else — we shall be ill at ease. You see, my lord, what 'tis I lack, 'Tis only some convenient tack, Some parsonage house, with garden sweet, To be my late, my last retreat; A decent church, close by its side, There, preaching, praying, to reside; And, as my time securely rolls, To save my own and other souls.

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Smed, I read thy brilliant lines, Where wit in all its glory shines; Where compliments, with all their pride, Are by their numbers dignified: I hope, to make you yet as clean As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean. I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall, And may be something else withal; And,