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Such was of old the fuss about this matter; In our good times, 'tis managed greatly better; When modern ladies part with modern lords, Their business no such tragic tale affords; Their "Family Legends," in the Charter-chest, In deeds of ink, not deeds of blood, consist; In place of ruffians ambushed in the dark. Comes, with his pen, a harmless lawyer's clerk, Draws a long—bond, my lady packs her things, And leaves her mate to smooth his ruffled wings. In the free code of first enlighten'd France, Marriage was broke for want of convenance; No fault to find, no grievances to tell, But, like tight shoes, they did not fit quite well. The lady curt'sied, with "Adieu, Monsieur," The husband bow'd, or shrugg'd, "de tout mon coeur!" "L'affaire est faite;" each partner free to range, Made life a dance, and every dance a change. In England's colder soil they scarce contrive To keep these foreign freedom-plants alive; Yet in some gay parterres we've seen, e'en there, Its blushing fruit this frail exotic bear;— Couples make shift to slip the marriage chain, Cross hands—cast off—and are themselves again. (Bell rings.) But, soft, I hear the Prompter's summons rung, That calls me off, and stops my idle tongue; A Sage, our fair and virtuous Author's friend, Shakes his stern head, and bids my nonsense end;— Bids me declare, she hopes her parent land May long this current of the times withstand; That here, in purity and honour bred; Shall love and duty wreath the nuptial bed;