Robert Graves

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?

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