Bless me! the Doctor! — what brings him to court?
It is not want; for lo! his comely port.
The lion's lack, and hunger feel, I grant;
But they who serve the Lord can nothing want.
Why stands he here then, elbow'd to and fro?
Has he no care of souls? No work to do?
Go home, good doctor, preach and pray, and give;
By far more blessed this, than to receive. —
Alas! the doctor's meek, and much resign'd;
But all his tenants pay their tithes in kind:
So that of debts, repairs, and taxes clear,
He hardly saves — two hundred pounds a year.
Then let him soar, 'tis on devotion's wing;
Who asks a bishopric, asks no bad thing:
A coach does much an holy life adorn;
Then muzzle not the ox who treads the corn.