The Young Wife's Plaint

Nay , seems it not most wondrous queer
That he should love to tarry here;
Prefer this " den " to boudoir nest
Where downy pillows coax to rest,
Chaise-tongue and Turkish cigarette?
A stranger compound ne'er was met
Than this same creature man, I ween.
What's this dull calf to velvet sheen?
Who dares assert that this pert minx
On yellow page in dingy inks
Is half so fair as I am, see!
What woman would not angry be
With man who turns from living charms
To worship some dead beauty's arms?
Why should he care of smiles to read
When mine so sweet are his indeed?
What's Maintenon or this L'Enclos
Or Gwynn to him, I'd like to know?
What stupid fad, what silly rage
To love such trash of bygone age!
Why, as I live, these letters mean
Just fifteen hundred seventeen.
Nay, 'tis a shame to buy such stuff
When nice new books are cheap enough!
Knew I how soon I'd be forgot
I ne'er had wedded him, God wot.
Vile, musty books, in dead skins bound —
Faugh, what an odour lingers round!
'Tis shameful taste, indeed it is;
But hear my vow, ye loves of his,
In spite of all your dingy looks —
Apologies for decent books —
I'll win him back, ye mildewed crew,
I'll make him think I love you too!
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.