  Cease thy blushes and thy sorrow, Boldly woo, and, not aside, Civil they will be to-morrow, And thou thus wilt win thy bride. ’Tis the fiddle makes the revel,— Give, then, the musicians gold; Though thou wish them at the devil, Kiss thy aunts-in-law, though old. Give a prince his meed of laurel, Of a woman speak not ill; With thy sausages don’t quarrel When thou hast a sow to kill. If the church to thee is hateful, All the more attend its shrine; To the parson be thou grateful, Send him, too, a flask of wine. If an itching chance to teaze thee, Like a man of honour, scratch; If thy shoe be tight and squeeze thee, Slippers get with all despatch. If thy soup has too much seasoning, Be not in an angry mood; Smiling say, instead of reasoning: “Sweet wife, all thou cook’st is good.” If thy wife a wish expresses For a shawl, straight buy her two; Buy her golden brooches, dresses, Lace and jewels not a few. If thou’lt give this plan a trial, Then, my friend, thou’lt surely gain Heaven to bless thy self-denial, And on earth to peace attain. |
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