| I've been trying to fashion a wifely ideal, And find that my tastes are so far from concise That, to marry completely, no fewer than three'll Suffice I've subjected my views to severe atmospheric Compression, but still, in defiance of force, They distinctly fall under three heads, like a cleric Discourse. My first must be fashion's own fancy-bred daughter, Proud, peerless, and perfect—in fact, comme il faut; A waltzer and wit of the very first water— For show. But these beauties that serve to make all the men jealous, Once face them alone in the family cot, Heaven's angels incarnate (the novelists tell us) They're not. But so much for appearances. Now for my second, My lover, the wife of my home and my heart: Of all fortune and fate of my life to be reckon'd A part. She must know all the needs of a rational being, Be skilled to keep counsel, to comfort, to coax; And, above all things else, be accomplished at seeing My jokes. I complete the ménage by including the other With all the domestic prestige of a hen: As my housekeeper, nurse, or it may be, a mother Of men. Total three! and the virtues all well represented; With fewer than this such a thing can't be done; Though I've known married men who declare they're contented With one. Would you hunt during harvest, or hay-make in winter? And how can one woman expect to combine Certain qualifications essentially inter- necine? You may say that my prospects are (legally) sunless; I state that I find them as clear as can be:— I will marry no wife, since I can't do with one less Than three. Owen Seaman. |
