VIII.
I need not tell how this Sir Thomas Brown,
Made love to this lady of great renown,
And offer’d this sweet and beautiful dame
In accents most tender, his heart and name;
How he was accepted, and on said day—
The last of the year, he led her away
To the Altar—the twain became one,
In spite of his children, daughter and son.
’Twas nicely arranged, ’twas secretly planned—
The bride—she looked sweet, the groom—he looked bland.
No maids, no groomsmen attended them there,
The Priest tied the knot with his usual care.
Now married—they went at once to her home,
For she lived in style, and almost alone,
With servants, ’tis true—perhaps half-a-score,
Including the one who guarded the door;
And there for weeks, they in quiet remained,
For seeking seclusion, cannot be blamed,
He, now being blessed with a charming wife,
She, to his comfort devoting her life;
They laughed, and joked, and cut their capers,
As they read together the morning papers.