"My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well,
And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell;
But you'll forgive me, if I own the event
Is short, is very short, of your intent:
At least, I feel some ills unfelt before,
My income less, and my expenses more."
"How, doctor! double vicar! double rector!
A dignitary! with a city lecture!
What glebes--what dues--what tithes--what fines--what rent!
Why, doctor!--will you never be content?"
"Would my good Lord but cast up the account,
And see to what my revenues amount;[2]
My titles ample; but my gain so small,
That one good vicarage is worth them all:
And very wretched, sure, is he that's double
In nothing but his titles and his trouble.
And to this crying grievance, if you please,
My horses founder'd on Fermanagh ways;
Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone,
Where every step endangers every bone;
And, more to raise your pity and your wonder,
Two churches--twelve Hibernian miles asunder:
With complicated cures, I labour hard in,
Beside whole summers absent from--my garden!
But that the world would think I play'd the fool,
I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school.
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