THE PARSON'S CASE

That you, friend Marcus, like a stoic,

Can wish to die in strains heroic,

No real fortitude implies:

Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise.

Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife,

Thy busy, drudging scene of life,

Thy insolent, illiterate vicar,

Thy want of all-consoling liquor,

Thy threadbare 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 complete 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, should Fortune shift the scene,

And make thy curateship 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 concerts, coffee-house, 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 generous wine;

Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease,

Thy years as numerous as thy days?