For in that unison what jars may come
When we have shuffled on the fatal yoke,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes our celibacy last so long;
For who would bear the plagues of poverty,
The fair’s neglect, the coxcomb’s contumely,
The dearth of dinner, and the mournful waste
That active Time in galligaskins wears,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a gold ring? Who’d live a subaltern,