Shall have her meat and pudding sent,
If that robs me of your consent.
Of course it is quite right of you
To seek excuse, but make them few,
I pray you, sir, for greatly I
Prefer unformal courtesy.
For what is fashion but a chain to bind
The wretch called man with tortures of some kind,—
The small-toed shoe, to grind his very corns,—
The wasted waist, which age for ever mourns,—