Beauty in trouble flees to the good angel
On whom she can rely
To pay her cab-fare, run a steaming bath,
Poultice her bruised eye;

Will not at first, whether for shame or caution,
Her difficulty disclose;
Until he draws a cheque book from his plumage,
Asking how much she owes.

(Breakfast in bed: coffee and marmalade,
Toast, eggs, orange-juice,
After a long, sound sleep—the first since when?—
And no word of abuse.)

Loves him less only than her saint-like mother,
Promises to repay
His loans and most seraphic thoughtfulness
A million-fold one day.

Beauty grows plump, renews her broken courage
And, borrowing ink and pen,
Writes a news-letter to the evil angel
(Her first gay act since when?):

The fiend who beats, betrays and sponges on her,
Persuades her white is black,
Flaunts vespertilian wing and cloven hoof;
And soon will fetch her back.

Virtue, good angel, is its own reward:
Your guineas were well spent.
But would you to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediment?