Thinking sometimes, you are but ill Imploy'd.
Fishing for Souls more fit, then frying Fish;
That makes me throw, Pease Shellings in your Dish.
You have a study, Books wherein to look,
How comes it then the Doctor's turn'd a Cook?
Well Doctor Cook, pray be advis'd hereafter
Don't make your Wife the Subject of our Laughter.
I find she's careless, and your Maid a slut,
To let you grease your Cassock for your gut.
You are all three in fault, by all that's blest;