And signing, sigh in secret for the calm,
Chaste, cheap seclusion of my Chiltern farm.
Yes, Muse and I are tired, and super-serious:
Her damask cheek is lined a bit, and wrinkled.
We are grown old, and London’s late nights weary us:
While the gold wine that erst in ice-pail tinkled,
Her doctor finds extremely deleterious;
And mine forbids me red lips, passion-crinkled:
So now we cultivate domestic habits
Amongst our pigs, our poultry, and our rabbits.