But we must go to Aghnecloy[1];
Or, Mr. Moore will take it ill.
The house accounts are daily rising;
So much his stay doth swell the bills;
My dearest life, it is surprising,
How much he eats, how much he swills.
His brace of puppies how they stuff!
And they must have three meals a day,
Yet never think they get enough;
His horses too eat all our hay.
O! if I could, how I would maul
His tallow face and wainscot paws,
His beetle brows, and eyes of wall,
And make him soon give up the cause!
Must I be every moment chid
With[2] Skinnybonia, Snipe, and Lean?
O! that I could but once be rid
Of this insulting tyrant dean!
ON A VERY OLD GLASS AT MARKET HILL.
FRAIL glass! thou bear'st that name as well as I;
Though none can tell, which of us first shall die.
ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT.
ME only chance can kill; thou, frailer creature,
May'st die, like me, by chance; but must by nature.
- ↑ The seat of Acheson Moore, esq., in the county of Tyrone, Aug. 20, 1721.
- ↑ The dean used to call lady Acheson by those names.
