Where Peter lodges? How his pot doth boil?
This truly knoweth, guesseth no man:
He spins not, neither does he toil,
Lives free as ancient Greek or Roman.

Some think on perfumes he is fed
Like that bright Bird of Araby;
And being a Phoenix-fowl, for bed
Doth roost at night on forest tree.

Vain talk! some earthly food he seeks,
As well as spiritual food and culture:
Myself have seen him eat beef-steaks,
Nay bolt, with appetite of vulture

Or art thou, Peter, that old wand'ring Jew
(Good Lord!) in new shape come again? —
Pshaw! Look in's face so parboiled, dusky-blue,
Yet patient, glad! — suspicion false and vain!

Where lodges he! Hath not the Crow a nest?
Fit fodder groweth for all beasts and men:
He lodges where he finds it readiest
And feeds full oft the Lord knows how or when.