‘ Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say,
‘ How many Seasons here we've tarry'd?
‘ Tis Forty years, this very day,
‘ Since you and I, old Girl, were married
‘ Look out;— the Sun shines warm and bright,
‘ The Stiles are low, the paths all dry;
‘ I know you cut your corns last night:
‘ Come; be as free from care as I.
‘ For I'm resolv'd once more to see
‘ That place where we so often met;
‘ Though few have had more cares than we,
‘ We've none just now to make us fret.’
Kate scorn'd to damp the generous flame
That warm'd her aged Partner's breast;
Yet, ere determination came,
She thus some trifling doubts express'd.