Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/96

 "Well, I shall think of that no more, If you'll be sure to come at four." The doctor now obeys the summons, Likes both his company and commons; Displays his talents, sits till ten; Next day invited comes again; Soon grows domestick, seldom fails Either at morning or at meals: Came early, and departed late; In short, the gudgeon took the bait. My lord would carry on the jest, And down to Windsor takes his guest. Swift much admires the place and air, And longs to be a canon there; In summer round the park to ride, In winter — never to reside. A canon! that's a place too mean: No, doctor, you shall be a dean; Two dozen canons round your stall, And you the tyrant o'er them all: You need but cross the Irish seas, To live in plenty, power, and ease. Poor Swift departs; and what is worse, With borrow'd money in his purse, Travels at least a hundred leagues, And suffers numberless fatigues. Suppose him now a dean complete, Demurely lolling in his seat; The silver verge, with decent pride, Stuck underneath his cushion side; Suppose him gone through all vexations, Patents, instalments, abjurations, First fruits and tenths, and chapter-treats; Dues, payments, fees, demands, and cheats — The