My face nor care a stiver,
For trades are brisk and trades are slow,
But mine goes on for ever.'
Thus on he prattled like a babbling brook.
Then I, 'The sun hath slipped behind the hill,
And my aunt Vivian dines at half-past six.'
So in all love we parted; I to the Hall,
They to the village. It was noised next noon
That chickens had been miss'd at Syllabub Farm.