But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide,
For two are the most that together can ride;
And e'en then 'tis a chance but they sit in a pother.
And joke and cross and run foul of each other.
But thinks I too, the banks, within which we are pent,
With bud, blossom, berry, are richly besprent;
And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam.
Looks lovely, when deck'd with the comforts of home.
In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows:
The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose,
And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife
Soothes the roughness of care--cheers the winter of life.
Then long be the journey, and narrow the way,
I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay;
And whate'er others say, be the last to complain.
Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.
Late though it was in the year, there was still some autumn foliage on
the trees and bushes and some few flowers and many ferns in sheltered
places; we also had the golden furze or gorse to cheer us on our way,
for an old saying in Devonshire runs--
When furze is out of bloom
Then love is out of tune,
which was equivalent to saying that love was never out of tune in
Devonshire, for there were three varieties of furze in that county which
bloomed in succession, so that there were always some blooms of that
plant to be found.
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