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PDFThen close with kind inquiries of my state,
“How are your tithes, and have they rose of late?
Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation,
There are not many better in the nation!
This, with your other things, must yield you clear
Some six—at least five hundred pounds a-year.”
Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom
To speak these truths as plainly as you read ’em;
You shall rejoin, my lord, when I’ve replied,
And, if you please, my lady shall decide.
“My lord, I’m satisfied you meant me well,
And that I’m thankful, all the world can tell;
But you’ll forgive me, if I own the event
Is short, is very short, of your intent:
At least, I feel some ills unfelt before,
My income less, and my expenses more.”
“How, doctor! double vicar! double rector!
A dignitary! with a city lecture!
What glebes—what dues—what tithes—what fines—what rent!
Why, doctor!—will you never be content?”
“Would my good Lord but cast up the account,
And see to what my revenues amount;[2]
My titles ample; but my gain so small,
That one good vicarage is worth them all:
And very wretched, sure, is he that’s double
In nothing but his titles and his trouble.
And to this crying grievance, if you please,
My horses founder’d on Fermanagh ways;
Ways of well-polish’d and well-pointed stone,
Where every step endangers every bone;
And, more to raise your pity and your wonder,
Two churches—twelve Hibernian miles asunder:
With complicated cures, I labour hard in,
Beside whole summers absent from—my garden!
But that the world would think I play’d the fool,
I’d change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3]
What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make,
Fixt in the centre of th’ Iernian lake!
There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe,
Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4]
There’s not a better steerer in the realm;
I hope, my lord, you’ll call him to the helm.”—
“Doctor—a glorious scheme to ease your grief!
When cures are cross, a school’s a sure relief.
You cannot fail of being happy there,
The lake will be the Lethe of your care:
The scheme is for your honour and your ease:
And, doctor, I’ll promote it when you please.
Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit,
Yet, doctor, you’ve a philosophic spirit;
Your wants are few, and, like your income, small,
And you’ve enough to gratify them all:
You’ve trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store:
And what would a philosopher have more?
You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks—”
“My lord, I’ve not enough to buy me books—
Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied,
Are there no wants I should regard beside?
Whose breast is so unmann’d, as not to grieve,
Compass’d with miseries he can’t relieve?
Who can be happy—who should wish to live,
And want the godlike happiness to give?
“How are your tithes, and have they rose of late?
Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation,
There are not many better in the nation!
This, with your other things, must yield you clear
Some six—at least five hundred pounds a-year.”
Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom
To speak these truths as plainly as you read ’em;
You shall rejoin, my lord, when I’ve replied,
And, if you please, my lady shall decide.
“My lord, I’m satisfied you meant me well,
And that I’m thankful, all the world can tell;
But you’ll forgive me, if I own the event
Is short, is very short, of your intent:
At least, I feel some ills unfelt before,
My income less, and my expenses more.”
“How, doctor! double vicar! double rector!
A dignitary! with a city lecture!
What glebes—what dues—what tithes—what fines—what rent!
Why, doctor!—will you never be content?”
“Would my good Lord but cast up the account,
And see to what my revenues amount;[2]
My titles ample; but my gain so small,
That one good vicarage is worth them all:
And very wretched, sure, is he that’s double
In nothing but his titles and his trouble.
And to this crying grievance, if you please,
My horses founder’d on Fermanagh ways;
Ways of well-polish’d and well-pointed stone,
Where every step endangers every bone;
And, more to raise your pity and your wonder,
Two churches—twelve Hibernian miles asunder:
With complicated cures, I labour hard in,
Beside whole summers absent from—my garden!
But that the world would think I play’d the fool,
I’d change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3]
What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make,
Fixt in the centre of th’ Iernian lake!
There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe,
Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4]
There’s not a better steerer in the realm;
I hope, my lord, you’ll call him to the helm.”—
“Doctor—a glorious scheme to ease your grief!
When cures are cross, a school’s a sure relief.
You cannot fail of being happy there,
The lake will be the Lethe of your care:
The scheme is for your honour and your ease:
And, doctor, I’ll promote it when you please.
Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit,
Yet, doctor, you’ve a philosophic spirit;
Your wants are few, and, like your income, small,
And you’ve enough to gratify them all:
You’ve trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store:
And what would a philosopher have more?
You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks—”
“My lord, I’ve not enough to buy me books—
Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied,
Are there no wants I should regard beside?
Whose breast is so unmann’d, as not to grieve,
Compass’d with miseries he can’t relieve?
Who can be happy—who should wish to live,
And want the godlike happiness to give?
