Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/402

 It fills my heart with woe, To think, such ladies fine Should be reduc'd so low, To treat a dull divine. Be by a parson cheated! Had you been cunning stagers, You might yourselves be treated By captains and by majors. See how corruption grows, While mothers, daughters, aunts, Instead of powder'd beaux, From pulpits choose gallants. If we, who wear our wigs With fantail and with snake, Arc bubbled thus by prigs; Z—ds! who would be a rake? Had I a heart to fight, I'd knock the doctor down; Or could I read or write, Egad! I'd wear a gown. Then leave him to his birch ; And at the Rose on Sunday, The parson safe at church, I'll treat you with burgundy. THE