Though Sh-----d-n will Be Sh-----d-n still, And show his great skill In writing as ill As any pupil Or Tom, Jack or Jill Bred up in a mill, Built over a rill, By a country vill, That han't a door sill, Nor hardly a spill Of money in till To buy them a pill, Or ale made of Jill, To take when they're ill; Yet 'tis the Dean's will, By good codicil, He now should be still Who han't wit at will, Nor pow'r o'er his drill To save him from nil; Which if he'd fulfil, And not his time spill, Nor let his ink trill No more from his quill, He'd find by't a bill, When death Swift did kill, Would answer all ill, And crown him with dill; For thus says Tom Lill, Who lives at the Brill. |