THE HOUSEMAID.
From all the rest your office varies,
Is so exempt from pert vagaries,
I cease to write, as cease to think,—
You cost me scarce one dip of ink.
At least, thanks to the 'march of Mind,'
(In which so few now lag behind,)
My author's words, if e'er so true,
Are really much too coarse for you.
Fain would I yield all his jocoseness,
And all his wit without his grossness.
Thus, where our Dean seems most in rapture,
I leave out nearly half a chapter;
Checking, in short, his worst inventions,
To 'carry out' his best intentions.
In lieu of lying, graces, airs,
Leave mops and pails upon the stairs;
And if some slave break both his shins,
What then care you?—why, just two pins!