" I can't bear the sight of the flimsy old fool, "
Black with rage, childless Susan replied,
" While he bends o'er his books, like a sack on a stool,
Fill'd with lumbering learning and pride.
Is it my fault, or his with his tea-water blood,
(In a Maltster a fault seldom seen,)
That I'm talk'd of in scorn, under bonnet and hood,
Wherever big bellies convene?
The lawyers want hanging. What right have old men
To marry fair maids of eighteen?
But he wheez'd, when he courted me, like a pipp'd hen,
Such maggot's meat never was seen.
This day is his birthday; he's fifty or more;
How strong the chang'd villain appears!
Oh, never was damsel so cheated before!
And his folly grows green with his years.
Of original sin, and the fruits of the fall,
I hate the vile picture he paints:
He hardly believes in the Devil at all!
Then how can he trust in the saints?
He pays to a Bookclub — When, when will it break?
Its infidels fill me with fear! —
He wastes in a newspaper fourpence a week,
And in music five shillings a year.
For what did I marry? The Wigtwizzle land
Will go, when he dies, to Jem's Nan!
His little gets less, like an us'd clew of band;
I have neither won money nor man.
The corn which he buys, goes as fast as it comes;
He malts it, and sells it on trust;
His customers schedule, while he sucks his thumbs,
And thrive, while I pine on a crust.
Every rogue knows Old Clever, whom babies deceive;
He gets all, to risk all again!
Oh, he 'll make his old will, when he 's nothing to leave!
I may knit, but industry is vain.
And he reads, aye, and writes, when his day's work is done,
Bent double beside the great pan,
While my cousin swaps horses, or fettles his gun,
Or fights in the fair — like a man. "