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 I took a wife my house to mind, Who misery compares; Cameleon-like, she lives on wind. And treats me with her airs.

She tells me wilful waste brings want. And quickly makes us poor; But though of fat I’m cruel scant, I dont waste wilful, sure.

I call this wife my saveall, and A thousand pretty names. For, under petticoat command. My whole respect she claims.

Yet, oft I silently complain Of shackles that I wear, And think my rib, with heart of pain, A spare-rib I could spare.

I ask her for a trifle small, When going on a prank; It costs too much, so nought at all Comes from her saving bank.

Forsooth ! she’s such a stingy wife She fears her very breath, If used too much, would waste her life; I wish she’d starve—to death.

Perchance, I bring a friend to sup, Whose talents I admire: The fire is low— she blows me up Before she blows the fire.