Forbid the bath, I quarrel not with filth—
To spend the winter in the open air,
I am a blackbird; if to scorch all day,
And jest beneath the hot meridian sun,
Then I become a grasshopper to please you;
If neither to anoint with fragrant oil,
Or even to behold it. I am dust—
To walk with naked feet at early dawn,
See me a crane; but if forbid at night
To rest myself and sleep, I am transform'd
At once to th' wakeful night owl.—Anon.

So gaunt they seem, that famine never made
Of lank Philippides so mere a shade:
Of salted tunny-fish their scanty dole;
Their beverage, like the frog's, a standing pool,
With now and then a cabbage, at the best
The leavings of the caterpillar's feast:
No comb approaches their dishevell'd hair,
To rout the long establish'd myriads there;
On the bare ground their bed, nor do they know
A warmer coverlid than serves the crow:
Flames the meridian sun without a cloud?
They bask like grasshoppers, and chirp as loud:
With oil they never even feast their eyes;
The luxury of stockings they despise,
But bare-foot as the crane still march along,
All night in chorus with the screech-owl's song.

Cumberland.

For famishment direct, and empty fare,
I am your Tithymallus, your Philippides,
Close pictured to the life: for water-drinking,
Your very frog. To fret, and feed on leeks,
Or other garden-stuff, your caterpillar
Is a mere fool to me. Would ye have me abjure
All cleansing, all ablution? I'm your man—
The loathsom'st scab alive—nay, filth itself,
Sheer, genuine, unsophisticated filth.