As if I were a darling child. 
So gentle is your whole proceeding,
That I could spend my life in reading. 
  You merit new employments daily: 
Our thatcher, ditcher, gardener, baily. 
And to a genius so extensive
No work is grievous or offensive: 
Whether your fruitful fancy lies
To make for pigs convenient styes;
Or ponder long with anxious thought
To banish rats that haunt our vault: 
Nor have you grumbled, reverend Dean,
To keep our poultry sweet and clean;
To sweep the mansion-house they dwell in,
And cure the rank unsavoury smelling. 
  Now enter as the dairy handmaid: 
Such charming butter [14] never man made. 
Let others with fanatic face
Talk of their milk for babes of grace;
From tubs their snuffling nonsense utter;
Thy milk shall make us tubs of butter. 
The bishop with his foot may burn it,[15]
But with his hand the Dean can churn it. 
How are the servants overjoy’d
To see thy deanship thus employ’d! 
Instead of poring on a book,
Providing butter for the cook! 
Three morning hours you toss and shake
The bottle till your fingers ache;
Hard is the toil, nor small the art,
The butter from the whey to part: 
Behold a frothy substance rise;
Be cautious or your bottle flies. 
The butter comes, our fears are ceased;
And out you squeeze an ounce at least. 
  Your reverence thus, with like success,
(Nor is your skill or labour less,)
When bent upon some smart lampoon,
Will toss and turn your brain till noon;
Which in its jumblings round the skull,
Dilates and makes the vessel full: 
While nothing comes but froth at first,
You think your giddy head will burst;
But squeezing out four lines in rhyme,
Are largely paid for all your time. 
  But you have raised your generous mind
To works of more exalted kind. 
Palladio was not half so skill’d in
The grandeur or the art of building. 
Two temples of magnific size
Attract the curious traveller’s eyes,
That might be envied by the Greeks;
Raised up by you in twenty weeks: 
Here gentle goddess Cloacine
Receives all offerings at her shrine. 
In separate cells, the he’s and she’s,
Here pay their vows on bended knees: 
For ’tis profane when sexes mingle,
And every nymph must enter single;
And when she feels an inward motion,
Come fill’d with reverence and devotion. 
The bashful maid, to hide her blush,
Shall creep no more behind a bush;
Here unobserved she boldly goes,
As who should say, to pluck a rose,[16]
  Ye, who frequent this hallow’d scene,
Be not ungrateful to the Dean;
But duly, ere you leave your station,
Offer to him a pure libation,
Or of his own or Smedley’s lay,
Or billet-doux, or lock of hay: 
And, O! may all who hither come,
Return with unpolluted thumb! 
  Yet, when your lofty domes I praise
I sigh to think of ancient days.