When one calls on the Quinks they always say:
“We've never quarreled, though we've been wed ten years!”
And then they quarrel, with “loves” and “pets” and “dears” …
“No, Dove!”—“Yes, Pet!”—“Sweetheart will have her way!”
—“Pet played the ace!”—“No, Love, I played the trey!”
If they would candidly slap mugs, pull ears,
Say “Brute!” cry “Fool!” let smiles be frankly sneers,
The sickly air might clear some honest day.

“Don't quarrel, Love!” says Pet, when Love looks gingered
Up to fling some healthy human curse.
“Be sweet, my Pet!” says Love, when Pet seems injured.
I can't write what I feel: I'm coarse, when terse;
But should Pet bounce a skillet off Love's sconce
I think they'd both be happier, for the nonce.