"
Or, "Mr. Dean--I should with joy
Beg you would here continue still,
But we must go to Aghnecloy;[1]
Or Mr. Moore will take it ill."
The house accounts are daily rising;
So much his stay doth swell the bills:
My dearest life, it is surprising,
How much he eats, how much he swills.
His brace of puppies how they stuff!
And they must have three meals a-day,
Yet never think they get enough;
His horses too eat all our hay.
O! if I could, how I would maul
His tallow face and wainscot paws,
His beetle brows, and eyes of wall,
And make him soon give up the cause!
Must I be every moment chid
With [2] _Skinnybonia, Snipe_, and _Lean?_
O! that I could but once be rid
Of this insulting tyrant Dean!
[Footnote 1: The seat of Acheson Moore, Esq., in the county of Tyrone.]
[Footnote 2: The Dean used to call Lady Acheson by those names. See "My
Lady's Lamentation," next page.--_W. E. B._]
ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET-HILL
Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I;
Though none can tell which of us first shall die.
ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT
We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.
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