We don’t marry beggars, says she: why, no:
It seems that to make ’em is what you do;
And as I can cook, and scour, and sew,
I needn’t pay half my victuals for you.
A man for himself should be able to scratch,
But tickling’s a luxury:—love, indeed!
Love burns as long as the lucifer match,
Wedlock’s the candle! Now, that’s my creed.