Nothing but Death can hope to heal
What looks as if it must be chronic.
And yet a solace soothes my brow,
Making my air a shade less gloomy:—
Six shillings in the pound is now
The figure out of which they do me;
But, were we man and wife to-day
(So close the Treasury loves to link 'em),
A grievous super-tax they'd lay
On our coagulated income.