Eugenics

In this woman, whose business it is to prepare my dinner, I find the most surprising sensitiveness to works of art, With splendid qualities of sympathy and heart, And now I learn her father was a sinner.

His lines were laid in unadventurous places; He was a tradesman in a little town. But whiles, he laid the yardstick down And went and lost his money at the races.

The draper had his quiver very full: At the thought of his thriftlessness my heart should harden. But had he lived and died like a churchwarden, I know my housekeeper had been dull.