I keep, and indulge in it once in a way;
But, bless you, it seems to fly out of the bottle
And swiftly decrease, though untouched all the day.
My sugar and sardines, my bread and my butter,
Are eaten, and vainly I fret and I frown;
My Landlady, just like an Æsthete's too utter
A fraud, and I vow that I'll go back to Town.
