The Deliberation.

‘ 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.