His masters lost, he’d oft in turn deplore,
And kindly add,—­“Heaven grant, I lose no more!”
Yet, while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance
Appear’d at variance with his complaisance: 
For, as he told their fate and varying worth,
He archly look’d,—­“I yet may bear thee forth.” 
“When first”—­(he so began)—­“my trade I plied,
Good master Addle was the parish-guide;
His clerk and sexton, I beheld with fear,
His stride majestic, and his frown severe;
A noble pillar of the church he stood,
Adorn’d with college-gown and parish hood: 
Then as he paced the hallow’d aisles about,
He fill’d the seven-fold surplice fairly out! 
But in his pulpit wearied down with prayer,
He sat and seem’d as in his study’s chair;
For while the anthem swell’d, and when it ceased,
Th’expecting people view’d their slumbering priest;
Who, dozing, died.—­Our Parson Peele was next;
‘I will not spare you,’ was his favourite text;
Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound;
E’en me he mulct for my poor rood of ground;
Yet cared he nought, but with a gibing speech,
‘What should I do,’ quoth he, ‘but what I preach?’
His piercing jokes (and he’d a plenteous store)
Were daily offer’d both to rich and poor;
His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke;
His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke: 
But though so young and blest with spirits high,
He died as grave as any judge could die: 
The strong attack subdued his lively powers, —
His was the grave, and Doctor Grandspear ours. 
   “Then were there golden times the village round;
In his abundance all appear’d t’abound;
Liberal and rich, a plenteous board he spread,
E’en cool Dissenters at his table fed;
Who wish’d and hoped,—­and thought a man so kind
A way to Heaven, though not their own, might find. 
To them, to all, he was polite and free,
Kind to the poor, and, ah! most kind to me! 
‘Ralph,’ would he say, ’Ralph Dibble, thou art old;
That doublet fit, ’twill keep thee from the cold: 
How does my sexton?- What! the times are hard;
Drive that stout pig, and pen him in thy yard.’ 
But most, his rev’rence loved a mirthful jest:-
’Thy coat is thin; why, man, thou’rt barely dress’d
It’s worn to th’ thread:  but I have nappy beer;
Clap that within, and see how they will wear!’
   “Gay days were these; but they were quickly past: 
When first he came, we found he couldn’t last: 
A whoreson cough (and at the fall of leaf)
Upset him quite;—­but what’s the gain of grief? 
   “Then came the Author-Rector:  his delight
Was all in books; to read them or to write: 
Women and men he strove alike to shun,
And hurried homeward when his tasks were done;
Courteous enough, but careless what he said,
For points of learning he reserved his head;
And when addressing either poor or rich,
He knew no better than his cassock which: