Your sweet girl nature, withering in the glare,
Or peeping out by stealth.
Wealth's prize is beauty, and to make all fair,
Beauty's desire is wealth.
I cannot keep a carriage for you, dear;
No horses on three hundred pounds a year
My lacking stables grace.
Yet the swift Hansom to the whistle clear
Will always speed apace.
I cannot give you wines of vintage rare,