"You can't be seen in any of those shirts,"
I acquiesce, but, goodness, how it hurts.
For they are rich with memories of Peace,
The soiled habiliments my lady loathes.
I do not long for trousers with a crease;
I do not want another crowd of clothes—
Particularly as you have to pay
Seventeen guineas for a suit to-day.
We are but worms, we husbands; yet 'tis said,
When the sad worm lies broken and at bay,