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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426369" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Lady’s Lamantation And Complaint Against The Dean</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sure never did man see<br>A wretch like poor Nancy,<br>So teazed day and night<br>By a Dean and a Knight.<br>To punish my sins,<br>Sir Arthur begins,<br>And gives me a wipe,<br>With Skinny and Snipe:,<br>His malice is plain,<br>Hallooing the Dean.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Dean never stops,<br>When he opens his chops;<br>I'm quite overrun<br>With rebus and pun.<br>Before he came here,<br>To spunge for good cheer,<br>I sat with delight,<br>From morning till night,<br>With two bony thumbs<br>Could rub my old gums,<br>Or scratching my nose<br>And jogging my toes;<br>But at present, forsooth,<br>I must not rub a tooth.<br>When my elbows he sees<br>Held up by my knees,<br>My arms, like two props,<br>Supporting my chops,<br>And just as I handle 'em<br>Moving all like a pendulum;<br>He trips up my props,<br>And down my chin drops<br>From my head to my heels,<br>Like a clock without wheels;<br>I sink in the spleen,<br>A useless machine.<br>If he had his will,<br>I should never sit still:<br>He comes with his whims<br>I must move my limbs;<br>I cannot be sweet<br>Without using my feet;<br>To lengthen my breath,<br>He tires me to death.<br>By the worst of all squires,<br>Thro' bogs and thro' briers,<br>Where a cow would be startled,<br>I'm in spite of my heart led;<br>And, say what I will,<br>Haul'd up every hill;<br>Till, daggled and tatter'd,<br>My spirits quite shatter'd,<br>I return home at night,<br>And fast, out of spite:<br>For I'd rather be dead,<br>Than it e'er should be said,<br>I was better for him,<br>In stomach or limb.<br>But now to my diet;<br>No eating in quiet,<br>He's still finding fault,<br>Too sour or too salt:<br>The wing of a chick<br>I hardly can pick:<br>But trash without measure<br>I swallow with pleasure.<br>Next, for his diversion,<br>He rails at my person.<br>What court breeding this is!<br>He takes me to pieces:<br>From shoulder to flank<br>I'm lean and am lank;<br>My nose, long and thin,<br>Grows down to my chin;<br>My chin will not stay,<br>But meets it halfway;<br>My fingers, prolix,<br>Are ten crooked sticks:<br>He swears my el—bows<br>Are two iron crows,<br>Or sharp pointed rocks,<br>And wear out my smocks:<br>To 'scape them, Sir Arthur<br>Is forced to lie farther,<br>Or his sides they would gore<br>Like the tusks of a boar.<br>Now changing the scene<br>But still to the Dean;<br>He loves to be bitter at<br>A lady illiterate;<br>If he sees her but once,<br>He'll swear she's a dunce;<br>Can tell by her looks<br>A hater of books;<br>Thro' each line of her face<br>Her folly can trace;<br>Which spoils every feature<br>Bestow'd her by nature;<br>But sense gives a grace<br>To the homeliest face:<br>Wise books and reflection<br>Will mend the complexion:<br>(A civil divine!<br>I suppose, meaning mine!)<br>No lady who wants them,<br>Can ever be handsome.<br>I guess well enough<br>What he means by this stuff:<br>He haws and he hums,<br>At last out it comes:<br>What, madam? No walking,<br>No reading, nor talking?<br>You're now in your prime,<br>Make use of your time.<br>Consider, before<br>You come to threescore,<br>How the hussies will fleer<br>Where'er you appear;<br>'That silly old puss<br>Would fain be like us:<br>What a figure she made<br>In her tarnish'd brocade!'<br>And then he grows mild:<br>Come, be a good child:<br>If you are inclined<br>To polish your mind,<br>Be adored by the men<br>Till threescore and ten,<br>And kill with the spleen<br>The jades of sixteen;<br>I'll show you the way;<br>Read six hours a-day.<br>The wits will frequent ye,<br>And think you but twenty.<br>[To make you learn faster,<br>I'll be your schoolmaster<br>And leave you to choose<br>The books you peruse.]<br>Thus was I drawn in;<br>Forgive me my sin.<br>At breakfast he'll ask<br>An account of my task.<br>Put a word out of joint,<br>Or miss but a point,<br>He rages and frets,<br>His manners forgets;<br>And as I am serious,<br>Is very imperious.<br>No book for delight<br>Must come in my sight;<br>But, instead of new plays,<br>Dull Bacon's Essays,<br>And pore every day on<br>That nasty Pantheon.<br>If I be not a drudge,<br>Let all the world judge.<br>'Twere better be blind,<br>Than thus be confined.<br>But while in an ill tone,<br>I murder poor Milton,<br>The Dean you will swear,<br>Is at study or prayer.<br>He's all the day sauntering,<br>With labourers bantering,<br>Among his colleagues,<br>A parcel of Teagues,<br>Whom he brings in among us<br>And bribes with mundungus.<br>[He little believes<br>How they laugh in their sleeves.]<br>Hail, fellow, well met,<br>All dirty and wet:<br>Find out, if you can,<br>Who's master, who's man;<br>Who makes the best figure,<br>The Dean or the digger;<br>And which is the best<br>At cracking a jest.<br>[Now see how he sits<br>Perplexing his wits<br>In search of a motto<br>To fix on his grotto.]<br>How proudly he talks<br>Of zigzags and walks,<br>And all the day raves<br>Of cradles and caves;<br>And boasts of his feats,<br>His grottos and seats;<br>Shows all his gewgaws,<br>And gapes for applause;<br>A fine occupation<br>For one in his station!<br>A hole where a rabbit<br>Would scorn to inhabit,<br>Dug out in an hour;<br>He calls it a bower.<br>But, O! how we laugh,<br>To see a wild calf<br>Come, driven by heat,<br>And foul the green seat;<br>Or run helter-skelter,<br>To his arbour for shelter,<br>Where all goes to ruin<br>The Dean has been doing:<br>The girls of the village<br>Come flocking for pillage,<br>Pull down the fine briers<br>And thorns to make fires;<br>But yet are so kind<br>To leave something behind:<br>No more need be said on't,<br>I smell when I tread on't.<br>Dear friend, Doctor Jinny.<br>If I could but win ye,<br>Or Walmsley or Whaley,<br>To come hither daily,<br>Since fortune, my foe,<br>Will needs have it so,<br>That I'm, by her frowns,<br>Condemn'd to black gowns;<br>No squire to be found<br>The neighbourhood round;<br>(For, under the rose,<br>I would rather choose those)<br>If your wives will permit ye,<br>Come here out of pity,<br>To ease a poor lady,<br>And beg her a play-day.<br>So may you be seen<br>No more in the spleen;<br>May Walmsley give wine<br>Like a hearty divine!<br>May Whaley disgrace<br>Dull Daniel's whey-face!<br>And may your three spouses<br>Let you lie at friends' houses!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jonathan+Swift">Jonathan Swift</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426369" data-title="My Lady’s Lamantation And Complaint Against The Dean de Jonathan Swift" data-description="Sure never did man see
A wretch like poor Nancy,
So teazed day and night
By a Dean and a Knight.
To punish my sins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe,
With Skinny and Snipe:,
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean.


The Dean never stops,
Wh..."></div>
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