Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/205

 For this, thou shalt from all things suck Marrow of mirth and laughter; And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.

But thou wilt never move from hence, The sphere thy fate allots: Thy latter days increased with pence Go down among the pots: Thou battenest by the greasy gleam In haunts of hungry sinners, Old boxes, larded with the steam Of thirty thousand dinners.

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, Would quarrel with our lot; Thy care is, under polish'd tins, To serve the hot-and-hot; To come and go, and come again, Returning like the pewit, And watch'd by silent gentlemen, That trifle with the cruet.