Classic Poem

Very Reverend P — — r,
Sir, I think had been better,
To one of your parts and condition,
That with baronets dines,
In his station who shines,
And have all you can wish in fruition.

Though you wear the grim gown ,
That is so much run down ,
And by all our fine gentlemen flighted;
You live in a place
Of religion and grace ,
That with merit is always delighted.

But how comes it about,
That in love you're so out,
And by girls are thus left in the lurch?
O they're made to undo men,
All women are women ,
And can humbug ev'n men of the church .

Your amours like the stone
By fam'd Sisyphus thrown,
Appears to be labour in vain;
When just at the top,
Fate gives you a stop ,
And down you come rolling again.

I pity your case,
And the length of your face,
On this solemn and woful occasion;
With a brotherly feeling,
With the wound a good healing,
And offer my poor consolation.

To tell you the truth,
In the days of my youth ,
I have had my strong passions and follies,
I have felt all your smart,
For the nymph of my heart,
And been jilted by Fannies and Mollies .

My breakfast was sighs ,
My dinner their eyes
My supper their beauties and graces ,
And at night when in bed,
Had nought in my head ,
But women , and love , and embraces

I am far from a saint,
Yet think not I meant,
To be lewd , as I loath superstition,
Believe me I hate ,
All the fire they create,
Which has not the Church 's permission.

Love at the beginning
You know was not sinning ;
When chang'd to a vice , 'twas the devil ,
Good Adam and Eve
For this passion had leave,
And 'twas noble, untainted with evil.

Such were doubtless your flames;
For these maggotty dames,
Who if flighty and fly from their word,
Never droop and be sad,
There are more to be had,
Then brush up, my boy, to a third .

Let a mind with a face
Your vicarage grace,
Nor let your view only be money,
For how oft do we see
A gay girl , like the bee ,
Bring her husband a sting with her honey.

But before I conclude,
No more be so rude,
The tutor to mix with the lover;
Girls must do as they will,
And our tongues must lie still,
Whilst about them as lovers we hover.

In a future attack
Exhibit no lack
Of discretion , in all your addresses ;
Till you have her for life ,
And have dubb'd her a wife ,
Let her faults have your smiles and caresses .

POSTSCRIPT.

Since my whimsical strains ,
Unworthy the pains ,
To compose, or your worship to read,
I hear that old Hymen ,
Whose post is to tie men ,
Has at last made you happy indeed;

Has blest you for life,
With an excellent wife,
Whose fortune's the least of her store,
Who has wit and good nature,
Fine sense without satyr ;
What can an arch-bishop have more?