The cockroach! a thousand unnatural things
The bakehouse teems with,—’tis adulteration
Devoutly to be shun’d. Impure? Or pure?
’Praps pure! perchance impure:—ay, there’s the rub;
For in this loaf of bread what dirt may come
From unclean baker at his midnight toil,
Must give us pause: There’s the respect
That takes all relish from the staff of life:
For who that reads his Lancet, or his Times,
Would eat this stuff the baker sends, contentedly,