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, 10
And more than hinted from my languid Looks,
I fed the Six remaining Days on Books: