[The Curate’S Progress.]

Near forty years with all my Care and Skill, Dear Flock, I fed you, as I feed you still. Tho’ mine at first was but the Curate’s fare— Half full the Belly, and the Back half bare— Yet, freed from College Rules and classic Song, The light Heart laugh’d and the young hope rose strong, And (wrapt in visions of preferment) found No Grief in Want and from Contempt no wound. In pride and pity when the Farmer gave A Sunday’s Dinner to the Vicar’s slave, And more than hinted from my languid Looks, I fed the Six remaining Days on Books: Patient I [star’d], and saw thro’ rolling years His tith’d Sheaf humble thro’ its golden Ears; Saw the proud Man of Land his Joke resign, And labour for a Laugh to flatter mine.