XIII. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL.
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've dreadful news, my Sister dear!Frederick has married, as we hear,Oh, _such_ a girl! This fact we getFrom Mr. Barton, whom we metAt Abury once. He used to know,At Race and Hunt, Lord Clitheroe,And writes that he 'has seen Fred Graham,Commander of the Wolf,--the sameThe Mess call'd Joseph,--with his WifeUnder his arm.' He 'lays his life,The fellow married her for love,For there was nothing else to move.H is her Shibboleth. 'Tis saidHer Mother was a Kitchen-Maid.'Poor Fred! What _will_ Honoria say?She thought so highly of him. PrayTell it her gently. I've no right,I know you hold, to trust my sight;But Frederick's state could not be hid!Awl Felix, coming when he did,Was lucky; for Honoria, too,Was half in love. How warm she grewOn 'worldliness,' when once I saidI fancied that, in ladies, FredHad tastes much better than his means!His hand was worthy of a Queen's,Said she, and actually shed tearsThe night he left us for two years,And sobb'd, when ask'd the cause to tell,That 'Frederick look'd so miserable.'He _did_ look very dull, no doubt,But such things girls don't cry about.What weathercocks men always prove!You're quite right not to fall in love._I_ never did, and, truth to tell,I don't think it respectable.The man can't understand it, too.He likes to be in love with you,But scarce knows how, if you love him,Poor fellow. When 'tis woman's whimTo serve her husband night and day,The kind soul lets her have her way!So, if you wed, as soon you should,Be selfish for your husband's good.Happy the men who relegateTheir pleasures, vanities, and stateTo _us_. Their nature seems to beTo enjoy themselves by deputy,For, seeking their own benefit,Dear, what a mess they make of it!A man will work his bones away,If but his wife will only play;He does not mind how much he's teased,So that his plague looks always pleased;And never thanks her, while he lives,For anything, but what he gives!'Tis hard to manage men, we hear!Believe me, nothing's easier, Dear.The most important step by farIs finding what their colours are.The next is, not to let them knowThe reason why they love us so.The indolent droop of a blue shawl,Or gray silk's fluctuating fall,Covers the multitude of sinsIn me. _Your_ husband, Love, might winceAt azure, and be wild at slate,And yet do well with chocolate.Of course you'd let him fancy heAdored you for your piety.
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