Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/62

50 To a less noble substance chang'd, Were now but leathern buckets rang'd. The ballads, pasted on the wall, Of Joan of France, and English Mall , Fair Rosamond, and Robinhood, The Little Children in the Wood, Now seem'd to look abundance better, Improv'd in picture, size, and letter; And, high in order plac'd, describe The heraldry of every tribe. A bedstead of the antique mode, Compact of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphosed into pews; Which still their ancient nature keep, By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep. The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desir'd their host To ask for what he fancy'd most. Philemon, having paus'd a while, Return'd them thanks in homely style; Then said, My house is grown so fine, Methinks, I still would call it mine. I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson if you please. He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels: He sees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding-sleeve; His