Four and forty lovers had Agathas in the old days,

All of whom she refused;

And now she turns to me seeking love,

And her hair also is turning.

I have fed your lar with poppies,

I have adored you for three full years;

And now you grumble because your dress does not fit

And because I happen to say so.

Memnon, Memnon, that lady

Who used to walk about amongst us

With such gracious uncertainty,

Is now wedded

To a British householder.

Flawless as Aphrodite,

Thoroughly beautiful,

Brainless,

The faint odour of your patchouli,

Faint, almost, as the lines of cruelty about your chin,

Assails me, and concerns me almost as little.