Classic Poem

Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife,
Thy busy, drudging scene of life,
Thy insolent illit'rate vicar,
Thy want of all-consoling liquor,
Thy thread-bare gown, thy cassock rent,
Thy credit sunk, thy money spent,
Thy week made up of fasting days,
Thy grate unconscious of a blaze,
And, to compleat thy other curses,
The quarterly demands of nurses,
Are ills you wisely wish to leave,
And fly for refuge to the grave:
And, O what virtue you express
In wishing such afflictions less!
But, now shou'd fortune shift the scene,
And make thy curate-ship a dean;
Or some rich benefice provide,
To pamper luxury and pride;
With labour small, and income great;
With chariot less for use than state;
With swelling scarf, and glossy gown,
And license to reside in town;
To shine, where all the gay resort,
At consort, coffeehouse, or court;
And weekly persecute his grace
With visits, or to beg a place;
With underlings thy flock to teach,
With no desire to pray or preach;
With haughty spouse in vesture fine,
With plenteous meals, and gen'rous wine;
Wou'dst thou not wish, in so much ease,
Thy years as num'rous as thy days?