The Echo, Song LIV

Some women take delight in dress, And some in cards take pleasure, While others place their happiness In heaping hoards of treasure, In private some delight to kiss, Their hidden charms unfolding. But they mistake their sov'reign bliss, There's no such joy as scolding.

Each morn, as I open my eyes, I soon disperse all silence, Before my neighbors can arise, They hear my clack a mile hence. When at the board I take my seat, There's one continued riot; I eat, I scold, I scold, I eat, My clack is never quiet.

Let it be flesh, or fowl, or fish, Though of my own providing. I still find fault with every dish, Still every servant chiding; Too fat, too lean, too salt too fresh, I never can be suited, But give a blast at every dish, Bak'd, roasted, boil'd or stewed.

Every night when I go to bed, I surely fall a weeping. For silence is the thing I dread, I cannot scold when sleeping. But then my pains to mitigate, And drive away all sorrow, Although to night may be too late, I'll pay them off to-morrow.