I am no merry monger when
I see the slatterns of the town:
I hate to think of docile men
Whose angers all are driven down;
For sluts make joy a thing obscene,
And in contempt is nothing clean.
I like to see the ladies walk
With heels to set their chins atilt:
I like to hear the clergy talk
Of other clergy’ s people’ s guilt;
For happy is the amorous eye,
And indignation clears the sky.