Often as I strain and stew,
Digging in these dirty ditches,
I have dared to think of you—
You and all your riches.

Lackeys help you on and off;
And the bed is silk you lie in;
You have doctors when you cough,
Priests when you are dying.

Wrapt in soft and costly furs,
All sewed up with careful stitches,
You consort with proper curs
And with perfumed bitches. . . .

You don't sweat to struggle free,
Work in rags and rotting breeches—
Puppy, have a laugh at me
Digging in the ditches!