Classic Poem

Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines
Where wit in all its glory shines;
Where compliments with all their pride
Are by thy numbers dignified.
I hope to make you yet as clean,
As that same, viz. St Patrick's Dean.
I'll give thee 'surplice, virge and stall,'
And maybe something else withal.
And were you not so good a writer
I should present you with a mitre.
Write worse then, if you can--be wise--
Believe me 'tis the way to rise.
Talk not of 'making of thy nest,'
Ah never 'lay thy head to rest!'
That head so well by wisdom fraught!
That writes without the toil of thought.
While others wrack their busy brains,
You are not in the least at pains.
Down to your deanery repair
And build a castle in the air.
I'm sure a man of your fine sense
Can do it with a small expense.
There your dear spouse and you together
May breathe your bellies full of ether.
When Lady Luna is your neighbour
She'll help your wife when she's in labour.
Well skilled in midwife artifices;
For she herself oft falls in pieces.
There you shall see a raree-show
Will make you scorn this world below.
When you behold the Milky Way
As white as snow, as bright as day;
The glittering constellations roll,
About the grinding Arctic pole;
The lovely tingling in your ears,
Wrought by the music of the spheres--
Your spouse shall there no longer hector,
You need not fear a curtain lecture.
Nor shall she think that she is 'un-done'
For quitting her beloved London.
When she's exalted in the skies,
She'll never think of mutton pies.
When you're advanced above Dean, viz.
You'll never think of Goody Griz.
But ever ever live at ease,
And strive, and strive, 'your wife to please.'
In her you'll centre all your joys,