Classic Poem

That you, friend Marcus, like a Stoic,
Can wish to die, in strain heroic,
No real fortitude implies:
Yet, all must own, thy wish is wise.

Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife,
Thy busy, drudging scene of life,
Thy insolent illiterate vicar,
Thy want of all-consoling liquor,
Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent,
Thy credit sunk, thy money spent,
Thy week made up of fasting days,
Thy grate unconscious of a blaze,
And, to complete thy other curses,
The quarterly demand of nurses,
Are ills you wisely wish to leave,
And fly for refuge to the grave:
And, O what virtue you express
In wishing such afflictions less!

But, now should fortune shift the scene,
And make thy curateship a dean;
Or some rich benefice provide,
To pamper luxury and pride;
With labour small, and income great;
With chariot less for use than state;
With swelling scarf, and glossy gown,
And licence to reside in town;
To shine, where all the gay resort,
At concert, coffee-house, or court;
And weekly persecute his Grace
With visits, or to beg a place;
With underlings thy flocks to teach,
With no desire to pray or preach;
With haughty spouse in vesture fine,
With plenteous meals, and generous wine;
Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease,
Thy years as numerous as thy days?