If man backs horses, plays cards or dice,

Or bets on an ivory ball,

He knows the rules, and he reckons the price—

Be it one half-crown, or his all.

(And it isn’t sense, and it isn’t pluck,

To double the stakes when you’re out of luck!)

If he plays—with his life for a limit—here,

It’s an even-money game:

He can lay on the Red—which is Conquered Fear,

Or the Black—which is Utter Shame.

(And there isn’t much choice between Reds and Blacks,

For Death throws “zero” whichever he backs.)

So that whether man plays for the red gold’s wealth

Where the little ball clicks and spins,

Or hazards his life in the black night’s stealth

When machine-gun fire begins—

It’s a limited gamble; and each of us knows

What he stands to lose ere the tables close.

But woman’s gamble—(there’s only one:

And it takes some pluck to play,

For she stakes, at love, on a single throw,

Pride, Honour, Scruples and Fears,

And dreams no lover can hope to know,

And the gold of the after-years.

(And all for a man; and there’s no man lives

Who is worth the odds that a woman gives.)

So that since you hazarded this for me

On the day love’s die was cast,

I’ll love you—gambler!—while “fours” beat three;

And I’ll lay on our love to last,

So long as a man will wager a price

On a horse or a card or the ball or the dice.