Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/97

 The wicked laity's contriving To hinder clergymen from thriving. Now all the doctor's money spent, His tenants wrong him in his rent; The farmers, spitefully combined, Force him to take his tithes in kind: And Parvisol discounts arrears By bills for taxes and repairs. Poor Swift, with all his losses vex'd, Not knowing where to turn him next, Above a thousand pounds in debt, Takes horse, and in a mighty fret Rides day and night at such a rate, He soon arrives at Harley's gate; But was so dirty, pale, and thin, Old Read would hardly let him in. Said Harley, "Welcome, reverend dean! What makes your worship look so lean? Why, sure you won't appear in town In that old wig and rusty gown? I doubt your heart is set on pelf So much, that you neglect yourself. What! I suppose, now stocks are high, You've some good purchase in your eye? Or is your money out at use?" — "Truce, good my lord, I beg a truce," (The doctor in a passion cried) "Your raillery is misapplied; Experience I have dearly bought; You know I am not worth a groat: