Each year I buy a dozen,
Yet scarce a year is gone,
Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
I find that I have none.
I don't believe in magic,
I know that you are true,
Yet say, my washer-woman,
What can those white ties do?

Does each with her own collar
To regions far elope,
Regions by starch untainted,
And innocent of soap?
I know not; but in future
I'll buy no more white ties,
But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'
Of Ritualistic guise.





TEMPORA MUTANTUR.

There once was a time when I revelled in
rhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,

Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and
poems produced by the dozens.