Beauty in Trouble Beauty in trouble flees to the good angel On whom she can rely To pay her cab-fare, run a steaming bath, Poultice her bruised eye; Will not at first, whether for shame or caution, Her difficulty disclose; Until he draws a cheque book from his plumage, Asking her how much she owes; (Breakfast in bed: coffee and marmalade, Toast, eggs, orange-juice, After a long, sound sleep - the first since when? - And no word of abuse.) Loves him less only than her saint-like mother, Promises to repay His loans and most seraphic thoughtfulness A million-fold one day. Beauty grows plump, renews her broken courage And, borrowing ink and pen, Writes a news-letter to the evil angel (Her first gay act since when?): The fiend who beats, betrays and sponges on her, Persuades her white is black, Flaunts vespertilian wing and cloven hoof; And soon will fetch her back. Virtue, good angel, is its own reward: Your dollars were well spent. But would you to the marriage of true minds Admit impediment? Robert Graves