 | Tom Punsibi's letter to Dean Swift |  |
TOM PUNSIBI'S LETTER TO Dean Swift.
When to my House you come dear Dean,
Your humble Friend to entertain,
Thro' Dirt and Mire, along the Street,
You find no Scraper for your Feet:
At this, you storm, and stamp, and swell,
Which serves to clean your Feet as well:
By Steps ascending to the Hall,
All torn to rags, with Boys and Ball.
Fragments of Lime about the Floor,
A sad uneasy Parlor Door,
Besmear'd with Chalk, and nick'd with Knives,
(A Pox upon all careless Wives!)
Are the next Sights you must expect;
But do not think they're my Neglect:
Ah! that these Evils were the worst,
The Parlor still is further curst;
To enter there if you advance,
If in you get, it is by Chance:
How oft in Turns have you and I
Said thus,—let me,—no, let me try,
'T is Turn will open it I engage,
You push me from it in a Rage!
Twisting, turning, trifling, rumbling,
Scolding, stairing, fretting, grumbling;
At length it opens, in we go,
How glad are we to find it so!
Conquests, thro' Pains and Dangers, please,
Much more than those we gain with Ease.
Your humble Friend to entertain,
Thro' Dirt and Mire, along the Street,
You find no Scraper for your Feet:
At this, you storm, and stamp, and swell,
Which serves to clean your Feet as well:
By Steps ascending to the Hall,
All torn to rags, with Boys and Ball.
Fragments of Lime about the Floor,
A sad uneasy Parlor Door,
Besmear'd with Chalk, and nick'd with Knives,
(A Pox upon all careless Wives!)
Are the next Sights you must expect;
But do not think they're my Neglect:
Ah! that these Evils were the worst,
The Parlor still is further curst;
To enter there if you advance,
If in you get, it is by Chance:
How oft in Turns have you and I
Said thus,—let me,—no, let me try,
'T is Turn will open it I engage,
You push me from it in a Rage!
Twisting, turning, trifling, rumbling,
Scolding, stairing, fretting, grumbling;
At length it opens, in we go,
How glad are we to find it so!
Conquests, thro' Pains and Dangers, please,
Much more than those we gain with Ease.
If you're dispos'd to take a Seat,
The Moment that it feels your Weight,
Nay take the best in all the Room,
Out go it's Legs, and down you come.
Hence learn and see old Age display'd,
When Strength and Vigour are decay'd,
The Joints relaxing with their Years;
Then what are mortal Men, but Chairs.
The Moment that it feels your Weight,
Nay take the best in all the Room,
Out go it's Legs, and down you come.
Hence learn and see old Age display'd,
When Strength and Vigour are decay'd,
The Joints relaxing with their Years;
Then what are mortal Men, but Chairs.
The Windows next offend your Sight,
Now they are dark, now they are light,
The Shuts a working too and fro,
With quick Succession come and go.
So have I seen in human Life,
The same in an uneasy Wife,
By Turns, affording Joy and Sorrow,
Devil to day, and Saint to morrow.
Now they are dark, now they are light,
The Shuts a working too and fro,
With quick Succession come and go.
So have I seen in human Life,
The same in an uneasy Wife,
By Turns, affording Joy and Sorrow,
Devil to day, and Saint to morrow.
Now to the Fire, if such there be,
But now 'tis rather Smoke you see,
In vain you seek the Poker's Aid,
Or Tongs, for they are both mislaid.
But now 'tis rather Smoke you see,
In vain you seek the Poker's Aid,
Or Tongs, for they are both mislaid.
The Bellice, take their batter'd Nose,
Will serve for Poker, I suppose,
Now you begin to rake,—a-lack!
The Grate is tumbled from its Back:
The Coals upon the Hearth are laid,
Stay Sir, I'll run and call the Maid;
She'll make our Fire again compleat,
She knows the Humour of the Grate.
Will serve for Poker, I suppose,
Now you begin to rake,—a-lack!
The Grate is tumbled from its Back:
The Coals upon the Hearth are laid,
Stay Sir, I'll run and call the Maid;
She'll make our Fire again compleat,
She knows the Humour of the Grate.
Deux take your Maid and you together,
This is cold Comfort in cold Weather.
This is cold Comfort in cold Weather.
Now all you see is well again,
Come be in Humour Mr. Dean,
And take the Bellice, use them so—
These Bellice were not made to blow,
Their leathern Lungs are in Decay;
They can't e'en puff the Smoke away.—
Come be in Humour Mr. Dean,
And take the Bellice, use them so—
These Bellice were not made to blow,
Their leathern Lungs are in Decay;
They can't e'en puff the Smoke away.—
And is your Rev'rence vex'd at that?
Get up a-God's Name, take your Hat—
Hang 'em say I, that have no Shift;
Come blow the Fire good Doctor Swift.—
Get up a-God's Name, take your Hat—
Hang 'em say I, that have no Shift;
Come blow the Fire good Doctor Swift.—
Trifles like these, if they must teize you,
Pox take those Fools that strive to please you,
Therefore no longer be a Quarr'ler,
Either with me, Sir, or my Parlor.
Pox take those Fools that strive to please you,
Therefore no longer be a Quarr'ler,
Either with me, Sir, or my Parlor.
If you can relish ought of mine,
A Bit of Meat, a Glass of Wine,
You're welcome to't and yon shall fare,
As well as dining with the May'r.
You saucy Scab, you tell me so,
You Booby Face, I'd have you know,
I'd rather see your Things in Order,
Than dine in State with the Recorder.
A Bit of Meat, a Glass of Wine,
You're welcome to't and yon shall fare,
As well as dining with the May'r.
You saucy Scab, you tell me so,
You Booby Face, I'd have you know,
I'd rather see your Things in Order,
Than dine in State with the Recorder.
For Water I must keep a Clutter,
Then chide your Wife for stinking Butter
Or getting such a Deal of Meat,
As if you'd half the Town to eat;
That Wife of yours the Devil's in her—
I've told her of this Way of Dinner,
Five hundred Times, but all in vain,
Here comes a Leg of Beef again!
Then chide your Wife for stinking Butter
Or getting such a Deal of Meat,
As if you'd half the Town to eat;
That Wife of yours the Devil's in her—
I've told her of this Way of Dinner,
Five hundred Times, but all in vain,
Here comes a Leg of Beef again!
O that! that Wife of yours wou'd burst—
Get out and serve the Lodgers first,
Pox take them all for me—I fret
So much, I cannot eat my Meat.
You know I'd rather have a Slice—
I know Dear Sir, your always Nice;
You'll see them bring it in a Minute,
Here comes the Plate, and Slices in it.
Therefore sit down and take your Place,
Do you fall to, and I'll say Grace.
Get out and serve the Lodgers first,
Pox take them all for me—I fret
So much, I cannot eat my Meat.
You know I'd rather have a Slice—
I know Dear Sir, your always Nice;
You'll see them bring it in a Minute,
Here comes the Plate, and Slices in it.
Therefore sit down and take your Place,
Do you fall to, and I'll say Grace.
| Tom Punsibi's letter to Dean Swift | |