For I shall make and break them all, again,
When Time hath taken this Headache away.

HAT if my conscience seem an idle joke —
My good resolves all disappear in smoke?
This thought remains – and is it not enough? —
I do not wear the Matrimonial Yoke!

AY! There is no one waiting at the door,
Whene'er I wander in at half-past four,
No one to question, no one to accuse,
No one, my shocking frailty to deplore!

O one to greet me with her tear-stained eyes,
No one to doubt my quaint, fantastic lies,
No one my foolish looks to criticize —
Ah, but the knots, the KNOTS in marriage-ties!

H Friend, could you and I, somehow, conspire,
To grasp the Matrimonial Scheme entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits – and then,
Make of its bonds a rousing Funeral Pyre?

YSELF, when young, did eagerly frequent
The weddings of my friends on Bondage bent;
But evermore thanked Fate, when I escaped
Scot-free, by that same door wherein I went.

NTO the fatal compact, why not knowing,
I've seen them go, nor dream where they were going;
Then out again, with shouts of "Westward, ho!"
The bitter seeds of Alimony sowing!

H well, they say that, sometimes, side by side,
A cat and dog may peacefully abide.
Perhaps – perhaps. But that is only when
That cat and dog are not together tied!

FT, to some patient married man I turn,
The secret of his dumb content to learn,
But lip-to-ear, he mutters, "Fool, beware!
This is the path, whence there is no return!"

H, threats of Hell, and hopes of Paradise!
One thing is certain – when a Husband dies,
No wife shall greet him there with "Where's" or "Why's"
Nor mock with laughter his most subtle lies!

O matter whether up or down he goes,
He neither cares nor questions, I suppose;
Since Death can hold no bitterness for him,
Because – because – Oh well, he knows, HE KNOWS!

OULD you the spangle of existence spend
In Matrimony? Slow about, my Friend!
A maiden's hair is more oft false than true,
And on the chemist may her blush depend.

MAIDEN'S hair is more oft false than true!
Aye, and her Modiste is, perchance, the clue,
Could you but know it, to her sylph-like grace,
And, peradventure, to her Figure, too.

HY, for this NOTHING, then, should you provoke
The gods, or lightly don the galling yoke
Of unpermitted pleasure, under pain
Of Alimony-until-Death, if broke?

HY, when to-day your bills are promptly paid,
Assume the whims of some capricious maid,