And yet had that fault been his only one, The Pair might have had few quarrels or none, For their tastes thus far were in common; But faults he had that a haughty bride With a Golden Leg could hardly abide-- Faults that would even have roused the pride Of a far less metalsome woman! CCLXXXII. It was early days indeed for a wife, In the very spring of her married life, To be chill'd by its wintry weather-- But instead of sitting as Love-Birds do, On Hymen's turtles that bill and coo-- Enjoying their "moon and honey for two," They were scarcely seen together! CCLXXXIII. In vain she sat with her Precious Leg A little exposed, _a la_ Kilmansegg, And roll'd her eyes in their sockets! He left her in spite of her tender regards, And those loving murmurs described by bards, For the rattling of dice and the shuffling of cards, And the poking of balls into pockets! CCLXXXIV. Moreover he loved the deepest stake And the heaviest bets the players would make; And he drank--the reverse of sparely,-- And he used strange curses that made her fret; And when he play'd with herself at piquet, She found, to her cost, For she always lost, That the Count did not count quite fairly. CCLXXXV. And then came dark mistrust and doubt, Gather'd by worming his secrets out, And slips in his conversations-- Fears, which all her peace destroy'd, That his title was null--his coffers were void-- And his French Chateau was in Spain, or enjoy'd The most airy of situations. CCLXXXVI. But still his heart--if he had such a part-- She--only she--might possess his heart, And hold his affections in fetters-- Alas! that hope, like a crazy ship, Was forced its anchor and cable to slip When, seduced by her fears, she took a dip In his private papers and letters. CCLXXXVII. Letters that told of dangerous leagues; And notes that hinted as many intrigues As the Count's in the "Barber of Seville"-- In short such mysteries came to light, That the Countess-Bride, on the thirtieth night, Woke and started up in affright, And kick'd and scream'd with all her might, And finally fainted away outright, For she dreamt she had married the Devil! HER MISERY. CCLXXXVIII. Who hath not met with home-made bread, A heavy compound of putty and lead-- And home-made wines that rack the head, And home-made liqueurs and waters? Home-made pop that will not foam, And home-made dishes that drive one from home, Not to name each mess, For the face or dress, Home-made by the homely daughters? CCLXXXIX. Home-made physic that sickens the sick; Thick for thin and thin for thick;-- In short each homogeneous trick For poisoning domesticity? And since our Parents, call'd the First, A little family squabble nurst, Of all our evils the worst of the worst Is home-made infelicity. CCXC.