And offer’d many a lame excuse: 
He never meant the least abuse—­
“My lord—­the honour you design’d—­
Extremely proud—­but I had dined—­
I am sure I never should neglect—­
No man alive has more respect”—­
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 talent, sits till ten;
Next day invited, comes again;
Soon grows domestic, 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 departed, and, what’s 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[8] lolling in his seat,
And 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 wicked laity’s contriving
To hinder clergymen from thriving.)
Now all the doctor’s money’s spent,
His tenants wrong him in his rent,
The farmers spitefully combine,
Force him to take his tithes in kine,
And Parvisol[9] 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[10] would hardly let him in. 
  Said Harley, “Welcome, rev’rend 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 cry’d,
“Your raillery is misapply’d;
Experience I have[11] dearly bought;
You know I am not worth a groat: 
But you resolved to have your jest,
And ’twas a folly to contest;
Then, since you now have done your worst,
Pray leave me where you found me first.”

[Footnote 1:  Collated with Stella’s copy.—­Forster.]