Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/359

 You would teach me to be wise; Truth and honour how to prize; How to shine in conversation, And with credit fill my station; How to relish notions high; How to live, and how to die. But it was decreed by Fate — Mr. dean, you come too late. Well I know, you can discern, I am now too old to learn: Follies, from my youth instill'd, Have my soul entirely fill'd; In my head and heart they centre, Nor will let your lessons enter. Bred a fondling and an heiress; Drest like any lady mayoress; Cocker'd by the servants round, Was too good to touch the ground; Thought the life of every lady Should be one continued playday — Balls, and masquerades, and shows, Visits, plays, and powder’d beaux. Thus you have my case at large, And may now perform your charge. Those materials I have furnish'd, When by you refin'd and burnish'd, Must, that all the world may know 'em, Be reduc'd into a poem. But, I beg, suspend a while That same paltry, burlesque style; Drop for once your constant rule, Turning all to ridicule; Teaching others how to ape you; Court nor parliament can 'scape you; Treat