Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/395

 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, Through 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 half way; 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 forc'd to lie farther, Or his sides they would gore Like the tusk 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; Through