If all the world and love were young,

And I had ne’er before been “stung”,

I might enough a dullard prove

To live with thee and be thy love.

But promis’d “autos”, Love’s rewards,

Turn out too often to be Fords;

And tho’ you vaunt your splendid yacht —

‘Tis but a rowboat, like as not!

Your silks and sapphires rouse my heart,

But I can penetrate your art —

My seventh husband fool’d my taste

With shoddy silks and stones of paste!

I like your talk of home and touring;

They savour of a love enduring;

But others have said things like that —

And led me to a Harlem flat!

So, dear, tho’ were your pledges true

I should delight to dwell with you;

I still must as a widow rove,

Nor live with thee, nor be thy love!