To Mrs. Anne, Regular Servant to the Rev. Mr. Precentor of York
A moment’s patience, gentle Mistress Anne;
(But stint your clack for sweet St. Charitie)
’Tis Willy begs, once a right proper man,
Though now a book, and interleaved you see.
Much have I borne from cankered critic’s spite,
From fumbling baronets and poets small,
Pert barristers, and parsons nothing bright,
But what awaits me now is worst of all.
’Tis true, our master’s temper natural
Was fashioned fair in meek and dove-like guise;
But may not honey’s self be turned to gall
By residence, by marriage, and sore eyes?
If then he wreak on me his wicked will;
Steal to his closet at the hour of prayer;
And (when thou hear’st the organ piping shrill)
Grease his best pen, and all he scribbles, tear.
Better to bottom tarts and cheesecakes nice,
Better the roast meat from the fire to save,
Better be twisted into caps for spice,
Than thus be patched and cobbled in one’s grave.
So York shall taste what Clouet never knew,
So from our works sublimer fumes shall rise;
While Nancy earns the praise to Shakespeare due,
For glorious puddings and immortal pies.