By burdens that from thine own follies spring.
When I am asked by some rich man to dine,
I mark not if the walls and roofs are fine,
Nor if the vases such as Corinth prizes,—
But solely how the smoke from cooking rises.
If dense it runs up in a column straight,
With fluttering heart the dinner-hour I wait.
If, thin and scant, the smoke-puffs sideway steal,
Then I forebode a thin and scanty meal.
So plain is she, her father shuns the sight: