Metres and rhymes that fail to dowel,
Willing to turn from pains so sharp
To some soft labour with the trowel.
Sooner than let our love-birds pine
For post-impressionistic dwellings,
With all the windows out of line
And curious humps and antic swellings,
The motley Muse's maundering nous
Cares nothing what the union rate is,
If any young things want a house