Is bent on mulcting every male
Who shirks the privilege of wedlock;
With such a hurt Time cannot deal,
And Lethe here affords no tonic;
Nothing but Death can hope to heal
What looks as if it must be chronic.

And yet a solace soothes my brow,
Making my air a shade less gloomy:--
Six shillings in the pound is now
The figure out of which they do me;
But, were we man and wife to-day
(So close the Treasury loves to link 'em),
A grievous super-tax they'd lay
On our coagulated income.

I dare not even try to guess
What is the charge for being single;
It may be more, it may be less
Than if we twain had chanced to mingle;
But though with thrice as heavy a fist
They fall on bachelors to bleed 'em
Yet, when I think of what I've missed,
I'll gladly pay the cost of Freedom.

O.S.

* * * * *

TEA-CUP TWADDLE.