# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/My Lady's Lamentation and Complaint

MY LADY'S LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT
AGAINST THE DEAN.
JULY 28, 1728.
SURE never did man see A wretch like poor Nancy, So teas'd day and night By a dean and a knight. To punish my sins, Sir Arthur begins, And gives me a wipe With Skinny and Snipe: His malice is plain, Hallooing the dean. The dean never stops, When he opens his chops; I'm quite overrun With rebus and pun. Before he came here, To spunge for good cheer, I sate with delight, From morning till night, With two bony thumbs Could rub my old gums, Or scratching my nose, And jogging my toes; But at present, forsooth, I must not rub a tooth. When my elbows he sees Held up by my knees, My arms, like two props, Supporting my chops, And just as I handle 'em Moving all like a pendulum; He trips up my props, And down my chin drops, From my head to my heels, Like a clock without wheels; ​I sink in the spleen, A useless machine. If he had his will, I should never sit still: He comes with his whims, I must move my limbs; I cannot be sweet Without using my feet; To lengthen my breath, He tires me to death. By the worst of all squires, Through bogs and thro' briers, Where a cow would be startled, I'm in spite of my heart led; And, say what I will, Haul'd up every hill; Till, daggled and tatter'd, My spirits quite shatter'd, I return home at night, And fast, out of spite: For I'd rather be dead, Than it e'er should be said, I was better for him, In stomach or limb. But now to my diet; No eating in quiet, He's still finding fault, Too sour or too salt: The wing of a chick I hardly can pick; But trash without measure I swallow with pleasure. Next for his diversion, He rails at my person: What court breeding this is! He takes me to pieces: From shoulder to flank I'm lean and am lank; My nose long and thin, Grows down to my chin; My chin will not stay, But meets it half way; My fingers, prolix, Are ten crooked sticks: He swears my el—bows Are two iron crows, Or sharp pointed rocks. And wear out my smocks: To 'scape them, sir Arthur Is forc'd to lie farther, Or his sides they would gore Like the tusk of a boar. Now, changing the scene, But still to the dean: He loves to be bitter at A lady illiterate; If he sees her but once, He'll swear she's a dunce; Can tell by her looks A hater of books; ​Through each line of her face Her folly can trace; Which spoils every feature Bestow'd her by nature; But sense gives a grace To the homeliest face: Wise books and reflection Will mend the complexion: (A civil divine! I suppose, meaning mine!) No lady who wants them, Can ever be handsome. I guess well enough What he means by this stuff: He haws and he hums. At last out it comes: What, madam? No walking, No reading, nor talking? You're now in your prime, Make use of your time. Consider, before You come to threescore, How the hussies will fleer Where'er you appear; "That silly old puss Would fain be like us: What a figure she made In her tarnish'd brocade!" And then he grows mild: Come, be a good child: If you are inclin'd To polish your mind, Be ador'd by the men Till threescore and ten, And kill with the spleen The jades of sixteen; I'll show you the way: Read six hours a day. The wits will frequent ye, And think you but twenty. Thus was I drawn in; Forgive me my sin. At breakfast he'll ask An account of my task. Put a word out of joint, Or miss but a point, He rages and frets, His manners forgets; And, as I am serious, Is very imperious. No book for delight Must come in my sight; But, instead of new plays, Dull Bacon's Essays, And pore every day on That nasty Pantheon. If I be not a drudge, Let all the world judge. 'Twere better be blind, Than thus be confin'd. ​But, while in an ill tone, I murder poor Milton, The dean, you will swear, Is at study or prayer. He's all the day sauntering, With labourers bantering, Among his colleagues, A parcel of Teagues, Whom he brings in among us And bribes with mundungus; Hail, fellow, well met, All dirty and wet: Find out, if you can, Who's master, who's man; Who makes the best figure, The dean or the digger; And which is the best At cracking a jest. How proudly he talks Of zigzags and walks; And all the day raves Of cradles and caves; And boasts of his feats, His grottoes and seats; Shows all his gewgaws, And gapes for applause; A fine occupation For one in his station! A hole where a rabbit Would scorn to inhabit, Dug out in an hour; He calls it a bower. But, O! how we laugh, To see a wild calf Come, driven by heat, And foul the green seat; Or run helter-skelter To his arbour, for shelter, Where all goes to ruin The dean has been doing: The girls of the village Come flocking for pillage, Pull down the fine briers And thorns, to make fires; But yet are so kind To leave something behind: No more need be said on't, I smell when I tread on't. Dear friend, doctor Jinny, If I could but win ye, Or Walmsley or Whaley, To come hither daily, Since Fortune, my foe, Will needs have it so, That I'm, by her frowns, Condemn'd to black gowns; ​No 'squire to be found The neighbourhood round; (For, under the rose, I would rather choose those) If your wives will permit ye, Come here, out of pity, To ease a poor lady, And beg her a playday. So may you be seen No more in the spleen! May Walmsley give wine Like a hearty divine! May Whaley disgrace Dull Daniel's whey-face! And may your three spouses Let you lie at friends houses!