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Title: Dick Strype; Or, The Force Of Habit
Author: Charles Lamb [
More Titles by Lamb]
_A Tale--By Timothy Bramble_
(1801)
Habits _are stubborn things:_
And by the time a man is turn'd of _forty_,
His _ruling passion's_ grown so haughty
There is no clipping of its wings.
The amorous roots have taken earth, and fix
And never shall P--TT leave his juggling tricks,
Till H----Y quits his metre with his pride,
Till W----M learns to flatter regicide,
Till hypocrite-enthusiasts cease to vant
And _Mister_ W----E leaves off to cant.
The truth will best be shewn,
By a familiar instance of our own.
Dick Strype
Was a dear friend and lover of the PIPE;
He us'd to say, _one pipe of Kirkman's best_
Gave life a _zest_.
To him 'twas meat, and drink, and physic,
To see the friendly vapour
Curl round his midnight taper,
And the black fume
Clothe all the room,
In clouds as dark as _science metaphysic_.
So still he smok'd, and drank, and crack'd his joke;
And, had he _single_ tarried
He might have smok'd, and still grown old in smoke:
But RICHARD _married_.
His wife was one, who carried
The _cleanly virtues_ almost to a vice,
She was so _nice:_
And thrice a week, above, below,
The house was scour'd from top to toe,
And all the floors were rubb'd so bright,
You dar'd not walk upright
For fear of sliding:
But that she took a pride in.
Of all things else REBECCA STRYPE
Could least endure a _pipe_.
She rail'd upon the filthy herb tobacco,
Protested that the noisome vapour
Had spoilt the best chintz curtains and the paper
And cost her many a pound in stucco:
And then she quoted our _King James_, who saith
"Tobacco is the Devil's breath."
When wives _will_ govern, husbands _must_ obey;
For many a day
DICK mourn'd and miss'd his favourite tobacco,
And curs'd REBECCA.
At length the day approach'd, his wife must die:
Imagine now the doleful cry
Of female friends, old aunts and cousins,
Who to the fun'ral came by dozens--
The undertaker's men and mutes
Stood at the gate in sable suits
With doleful looks,
Just like so many melancholy _rooks_.
Now cakes and wine are handed round,
Folks sigh, and drink, and drink, and sigh,
For Grief makes people dry:
But DICK is _missing_, nowhere to be found
Above, below, about
They searched the house throughout,
Each hole and secret entry,
Quite from the garret to the pantry,
In every corner, cupboard, nook and shelf,
And all concluded he had _hang'd_ himself.
At last they found him--reader, guess you where--
'Twill make you stare--
Perch'd on REBECCA'S _Coffin_, at his rest,
SMOKING A PIPE OF KIRKMAN'S BEST.
[The end]
Charles Lamb's poem: Dick Strype; Or, The Force Of Habit
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