Dry as a July drouth,
And a simoon from the south,
Art thou, Sahara Quarles!
I love thee not;
Blaze 'neath the pot,
'T is the best thing that I can do for thee,
To make thee accelerate cookery.

Dusty and dry,
Thou wouldst the eyeball of a saint defy;
Thy emblems seem
A staircase in a choking dream,
Yet Herbert said,
Thy chip had his provoking hunger stayed.