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.