My barns are half unthatch'd, untyled my house; Lost by this fatal sickness all my cows: See, there's the bill my late damn'd law-suit cost! PARSON. I must confess the times are bad indeed: slaves, Saints, Martyrs, Fathers, all call'd fools and knaves 'SQUIRE. Come, preach no more, but drink, and hold your tongue: I'm for the Church, but think the parson's wrong. PARSON. See then! free-thinking now so rank is grown, 'Squires, and their tenants too, profane as lords, 'SQUIRE. Come, drink; PARSON. Here's to you then; to church and king 'SQUIRE. Here's Church and king; I hate the glass should stand, Though one takes tythes, and t'other taxes land. PARSON. Heaven with new plagues will scourge this sinful nation, Unless we soon repeal the Toleration, And to the Church restore the Convocation. 'SQUIRE. Plagues we should feel sufficient, on my word, Had not the honest Plaids been trick'd by France. PARSON. Is not most gracious George our faith's defender? You love the Church, yet wish for the Pretender! 'SQUIRE. Preferment, I suppose, is what you mean; Oh, ho! here's one, I see, from parson Sly: My reverend neighbour Squab being like to die, "I hope, if heaven should please to take him hence, "To ask the living wou'd be no offence." PARSON. Have you not swore that I shou'd Squab succeed? Think how for this I taught your sons to read; How oft discover'd puss on new-plow'd land; 'SQUIRE. 'Twas yours, had you been honest, wise, or civil; Now ev'n go court the Bishops, or the Devil. PARSON. If I meant any thing, now let me die; I am, you know, a right true-hearted Tory, 'SQUIRE. Thou art an honest dog, that's truth indeed— PARSON. Most noble 'Squire, more generous than your wine, How pleasing's the condition you assign! Give me the sparkling glass, and here, d'ye see, With joy I drink it on my bended knee: Great Queen*, who governest this earthly ball, Involves far distant realms in bloody wars, And gives them peace again-nay gav'st us this; (SUAIRE, rubbing his hands.) With all my heart, * Madam de Pompadour. |