I Saw Old Idleness, Fat, With Great Cheeks Puffed To The Huge Circumference Of A Sigh, But Past All Tinge Of Apples Long Ago. His Boyish Fingers Twiddled Up And Down The Filthy Remnant Of A Cup Of Physic That Thicked In Odour All The While He Stayed. His Eyes Were Sad As Fishes That Swim Up And Stare Upon An Element Not Theirs Through A Thin Skin Of Shrewish Water, Then Turn On A Languid Fin, And Dip Down, Down, Into Unplumbed, Vast, Oozy Deeps Of Dream. His Stomach Was His Master, And Proclaimed It; And Never Were Such Meagre Puppets Made The Slaves Of Such A Tyrant, As His Thoughts Of That Obese Epitome Of Ills. Trussed Up He Sat, The Mockery Of Himself; And When Upon The Wan Green Of His Eye I Marked The Gathering Lustre Of A Tear, Thought I Myself Must Weep, Until I Caught A Grey, Smug Smile Of Satisfaction Smirch His Pallid Features At His Misery. And Laugh Did I, To See The Little Snares He Had Set For Pests To Vex Him: His Great Feet Prisoned In Greater Boots; So Narrow A Stool To Seat Such Elephantine Parts As His; Ay, And The Book He Read, A Hebrew Bible; And, To Incite A Gross And Backward Wit, An Old, Crabbed, Wormed, Greek Dictionary; And A Foxy Ovid Bound In Dappled Calf.