My wife and I, in one romantic cot, The world forgetting, by the world forgot, Or high as the gods upon Olympus dwell, Pleased with what things we have, and pleased as well To wait in hope for those which we have not.
She vows in ardour for a horse to trot; I stake my votive prayers upon a yacht. Which shall be first remembered, who can tell— My wife or I?
Harvests of flowers o’er all our garden plot, She dreams; and I to enrich a darker spot— My unprovided cellar. Both to swell Our narrow cottage huge as a hotel, Where portly friends may come and share the lot Of wife and I.