When Rapp the Harmonist embargo’d marriage In his harmonious settlement (which flourishes Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, Without those sad expenses which disparage What Nature naturally most encourages)— Why call’d he ‘Harmony’ a state sans wedlock? Now here I’ve got the preacher at a dead lock. Because he either meant to sneer at harmony Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. But whether reverend Rapp learn’d this in Germany Or no, ’tis said his sect is rich and godly, Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. My objection ’s to his title, not his ritual, Although I wonder how it grew habitual. But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, Who favour, malgré Malthus, generation— Professors of that genial art, and patrons Of all the modest part of propagation; Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, That half its produce tends to emigration, That sad result of passions and potatoes— Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. Had Adeline read Malthus? I can’t tell; I wish she had: his book ’s the eleventh commandment, Which says, ‘Thou shalt not marry,’ unless well: This he (as far as I can understand) meant. ’Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell Nor canvass what so ‘eminent a hand’ meant; But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, Or turning marriage into arithmetic. But Adeline, who probably presumed That Juan had enough of maintenance, Or separate maintenance, in case ’twas doom’d— As on the whole it is an even chance That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom’d, May retrograde a little in the dance Of marriage (which might form a painter’s fame, Like Holbein’s ‘Dance of Death’—but ’tis the same);— But Adeline determined Juan’s wedding In her own mind, and that ’s enough for woman: But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading, Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman. And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. She deem’d his merits something more than common: All these were unobjectionable matches, And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer’s sea, That usual paragon, an only daughter, Who seem’d the cream of equanimity Till skimm’d—and then there was some milk and water, With a slight shade of blue too, it might be, Beneath the surface; but what did it matter? Love ’s riotous, but marriage should have quiet, And being consumptive, live on a milk diet. And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, A dashing demoiselle of good estate, Whose heart was fix’d upon a star or blue string; But whether English dukes grew rare of late, Or that she had not harp’d upon the true string, By which such sirens can attract our great, She took up with some foreign younger brother, A Russ or Turk—the one ’s as good as t’ other.