Beauty in Trouble
Beauty in trouble flees to the good angel
On whom she can rely
To pay her cab—fare, run a steaming bath,
Poultice her bruised eye;
Will not at first, whether for shame or caution,
Her difficulty disclose;
Until he draws a cheque book from his plumage,
Asking her how much she owes;
(Breakfast in bed: coffee and marmalade,
Toast, eggs, orange—juice,
After a long, sound sleep —the first since when? —
And no word of abuse.)
Loves him less only than her saint—like mother,
Promises to repay
His loans and most seraphic thoughtfulness
A million—fold one day.
Beauty grows plump, renews her broken courage
And, borrowing ink and pen,
Writes a news—letter to the evil angel
(Her first gay act since when?):
The fiend who beats, betrays and sponges on her,
Persuades her white is black,
Flaunts vespertilian wing and cloven hoof;
And soon will fetch her back.
Virtue, good angel, is its own reward:
Your dollars were well spent.
But would you to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediment?
