"For four things the earth is disquieted, and five which it cannot bear." AGUR.
This world is a delightful place to dwell in, And many sweet and lovely things are in it; Yet there are sundry, at the which I have A natural dislike, against all reason. I never like A TAILOR. Yet no man Likes a new coat or inexpressibles Better than I do--few, I think, so well: I can't account for this. The tailor is, A far more useful member of society Than is a poet;--then his sprightly wit, His glee, his humour, and his happy mind Entitle him to fair esteem. Allowed. But then, his self-sufficiency;--his shape So like a frame, whereon to hang a suit Of dandy clothes;--his small straight back and arms, His thick bluff ankles, and his supple knees, Plague on't!--'Tis wrong--I do not like a tailor.
AN OLD BLUE-STOCKING MAID! Oh! that's a being, That's hardly to be borne. Her saffron hue, Her thinnish lips, close primmed as they were sewn Up by a milliner, and made water-proof, To guard the fount of wisdom that's within. Her borrowed locks, of dry and withered hue, Her straggling beard of ill-condition'd hairs, And then her jaws of wise and formal cast; Chat-chat--chat-chat! Grand shrewd remarks! That may have meaning, may have none for me. I like the creature so supremely ill, I never listen, never calculate. I know this is ungenerous and unjust: I cannot help it; for I do dislike An old blue-stocking maid even to extremity. I do protest I'd rather kiss a tailor.
A GREEDY EATER! He is worst of all. The gourmand bolts and bolts, and smacks his chops-- Eyes every dish that enters, with a stare Of greed and terror, lest one thing go by him. The glances that he casts along the board, At every slice that's carved, have that in them Beyond description. I would rather dine Beside an ox--yea, share his cog of draff; Or with a dog, if he'd keep his own side; Than with a glutton on the rarest food. A thousand times I've dined upon the waste, On dry-pease bannock, by the silver spring. O, it was sweet--was healthful--had a zest; Which at the paste my palate ne'er enjoyed. My bonnet laid aside, I turned mine eyes With reverence and humility to heaven, Craving a blessing from the bounteous Giver; Then grateful thanks returned. There was a joy In these lone meals, shared by my faithful dog, Which I remind with pleasure, and has given A verdure to my spirit's age. Then think Of such a man, beside a guzzler set; And how his stomach nauseates the repast. "When he thinks of days he shall never more see. Of his cake and his cheese, and his lair on the lea, His laverock that hung on the heaven's ee-bree, His prayer and his clear mountain rill." I cannot eat one morsel. There is that, Somewhere within, that balks each bold attempt; A loathing--a disgust--a something worse: I know not what it is. A strong desire To drink, but not for thirst. 'Tis from a wish To wash down that enormous eater's food-- A sympathetic feeling. Not of love! And be there ale, or wine, or potent draught Superior to them both, to that I fly, And glory in the certainty that mine Is the ethereal soul of food, while his Is but the rank corporeal--the vile husks Best suited to his crude voracity. And far as the bright spirit may transcend Its mortal frame, my food transcendeth his.