Though, If You Ask Her Name, She Says Elise, Being Plain Elizabeth, E'En Let It Pass, And Own That, If Her Aspirates Take Their Ease, She Ever Makes A Point, In Washing Glass, Handling The Engine, Turning Taps For Tots, And Countering Change, And Scorning What Men Say, Of Posing As A Dove Among The Pots, Nor Often Gives Her Dignity Away. Her Head'S A Work Of Art, And, If Her Eyes Be Tired And Ignorant, She Has A Waist; Cheaply The Mode She Shadows; And She Tries From Penny Novels To Amend Her Taste; And, Having Mopped The Zinc For Certain Years, And Faced The Gas, She Fades And Disappears. The Artist Muses At His Ease, Contented That His Work Is Done, And Smiling - Smiling! - As He Sees His Crowd Collecting, One By One. Alas! His Travail'S But Begun! None, None Can Keep The Years In Line, And What To Ninety-Eight Is Fun May Raise The Gorge Of Ninety-Nine! Muswell Hill, 1898.