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　　DICK STRYPE; OR, THE FORCE OF HABIT

　　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 "ed 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 Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4