Be't room of state or poverty's mean hovel,
He stands upon no points:—the couch is spread,
The table furnish'd—on't a goodly show
Of tempting dishes: what should he ask more?
He drops into a graceful attitude,
Calls like a lord about him, gorges greedily
The daintiest dish, washes it down with wine,
Then bilks his club, and quietly walks home.
I too am pieced with him in this respect,
And by the god my prudent course is fashion'd.