Yet field-sports, dice, cards, balls, and such like courses, Things which he might be thought to set store by, Gave him but little pleasure. He liked horses, But was content to let them please his eye-- Buying them, not squaring with his resources. Therefore his _summum bonum_ was to lie Stretch’d at full length--yea, frankly be it said, To do no single thing but lie in bed. ’Twas owing all to that infernal writing. Body and brains had borne such grievous rounds Of kicks, cuffs, floors, from copying and inditing, That he could find no balsam for his wounds, No harbor for his wreck half so inviting As to lie still, far from all sights and sounds, And so, in bed, do nothing on God’s earth But try and give his senses a new birth. “Bed--bed’s the thing, by Heaven!” thus would he swear. “Bed is your only work, your only duty. Bed is one’s gown, one’s slippers, one’s armchair, Old coat; you’re not afraid to spoil its beauty. Large you may have it, long, wide, brown, or fair, Down-bed or mattress, just as it may suit ye. Then take your clothes off, turn in, stretch, lie double; Be but in bed, you’re quit of earthly trouble!” Borne to the fairy palace then, but tired Of seeing so much dancing, he withdrew Into a distant room, and there desired A bed might be set up, handsome and new, With all the comforts that the case required: Mattresses huge, and pillows not a few Put here and there, in order that no ease Might be found wanting to cheeks, or arms, or knees. The bed was eight feet wide, lovely to see, With white sheets, and fine curtains, and rich loops Things vastly soothing to calamity; The coverlet hung light in silken droops; It might have held six people easily; But he disliked to lie in bed by groups. A large bed to himself, that was his notion, With room enough to swim in--like the ocean. In this retreat there joined him a good soul, A Frenchman, one who had been long at court, An admirable cook--though, on the whole, His gains of his deserts had fallen short. For him was made, cheek, as it were, by jowl, A second bed of the same noble sort, Yet not so close but that the folks were able To set between the two a dinner-table. Here was served up, on snow-white table-cloths, Each daintiest procurable comestible In the French taste (all others being Goths), Dishes alike delightful and digestible. Only our scribe chose sirups, soups, and broths, The smallest trouble being a detestable Bore, into which not ev’n his dinner led him. Therefore the servants always came and fed him.