Ii

We don’t marry beggars, says she: why, no: It seems that to make ’em is what you do; And as I can cook, and scour, and sew, I needn’t pay half my victuals for you. A man for himself should be able to scratch, But tickling’s a luxury:—love, indeed! Love burns as long as the lucifer match, Wedlock’s the candle! Now, that’s my creed.