And now, my dear Sally, you're chang'd to a wife,
And I am enlisted a husband for life.
The darts, and the flames, and the killings are o'er,
With all the false ware Cupid keeps in his store.

Ne'er let us look back to the days of our courting,
And say, with a sigh, 'they were those we'd most sport in.'
The fault is our own if with others we class them,
For we may, if we will, make the future surpass them.

Pure love is the root from which bliss rises free;
Then who'd ever shake down the fruit from the tree?
It will ripen with time, and the taste is divine;
I know I've your heart, and I know you have mine.

Let me tell thee, Miss Prudence must not make a stand,
But she must attend us-we'll each take a hand;
For if this chaste damsel should never be driven,
Our faults will be fewer and sooner forgiven.

Should one find an error, and scold for a while on 't,
Let the other take Cranmer's advice--and be silent;
'Twill lead us directly to sweet peace before us;
Let us not, like the fife and the drum, bear a chorus.

If in turning the shilling two half-pence we have,
We'll live upon one, and the other we'll save;
And if it shall prove our returns should be more,
We'll rise in our living, and rise in our store.

And then, my dear Girl, it is twenty to one,
This will be our support when old age shall come on.
If imprudent, a workhouse may fall to our share--
The reverse may produce us a chariot and pair.

Besides, 'twill enable us both, in the end,
To live independent, and succour a friend;
For happiness surely from that man is flown,
Who acts as if he for himself liv'd alone.

Domestic concerns are with thee to denote;
While I keep the vessel of commerce afloat.
Of mutual assistance we'll ever be heedful,
With help or with council, whichever is needful.

Time kept marching forward, while thirty years close;
Nor car'd he a farthing who fell or who rose;
Then sprung up (these maxims attended with care)
A snug country-house, with a chariot and pair.

Forty-one years pass'd over--the tide ran one way--
We still liv'd two lovers--it seem'd but one day;
But when they were gone she was torn from my side,
And left me a wound that will ever abide.

If with time love increases, as authors engage,
In spite of diseases, of wrinkles, or age,
Then my daily feelings what mortal can tell;
Except he has lov'd one as long and as well?