To a Certain Critic

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To a Certain Critic

Such guests as you, sir, were not in my mind

When I my homely dish with care designed;

’Twas certain humble souls I would have fed

Who do not turn from wholesome milk and bread:

You came, slow-trotting on the narrow way,

O’erturned the food, and trod it in the clay;

Then low with discoid nostrils sniffing curt,

Cried, “Sorry cook! why, what a mess of dirt!”