Or other garden-stuff, your caterpillar
Is a mere fool to me. Would ye have me abjure
All cleansing, all ablution? I'm your man—
The loathsom'st scab alive—nay, filth itself,
Sheer, genuine, unsophisticated filth.
To brave the winter with his nipping cold,
A houseless tenant of the open air,
See in me all the ousel. Is't my business,
In sultry summer's dry and parched season,
To dare the stifling heat, and prate the while