I demur
To “water wan,” it comes too often, sir;
Write next, as I should, rhyming, “wan water,”
The Maidens.
Lovers, we pray you, gaining our consents,
Let us, too, have our mediæval bents,
Give us, for cricket-matches, tournaments.
The Widowers.
We are stout, nor will uncomfortably truss
Our arms and legs, like fowls; no jousts for us,