"Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied,

"I hate to hear every thing vulgarly my'd;

Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again,

Say, our cow house, our barn yard, our pig pen."

"By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please

Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees."

"Say our," Xantippe exclaimed in a rage.

"I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age!"

Oh, woman! though only a part of man's rib,

If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib,

Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you,

You are certain to prove the best man of the two.

In the following case this was certainly true;

For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe,

And laying about her, all sides at random,

The adage was verified—"Nil desperandum."

Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain,

To ward off the blows which descended like rain—

Concluding that valour's best part was discretion—

Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian:

But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid,

Converted the siege into a blockade.

At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate,

He concluded 't was useless to strive against fate:

And so, like a tortoise protruding his head,

Said, "My dear, may we come out from under our bed?"

"Hah! hah!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Socrates Snooks,

I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks:

Now, Socrates—hear me—from this happy hour,

If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour."

'T is said the next Sabbath, ere going to church,

He chanced for a clean pair of trousers to search:

Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches,

"My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches?"