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 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.—

The same.

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.

The same.

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.