For to be in good time, such a haste she was in;
And unto the dame to support her she clung—
With her head on her shoulder, her face downward hung;
For the crimson tide rising rushed through ev'ry vein,
With a pang piercing sharper than actual pain.
"Come, Sir, Mr. Bridegroom, or whatever 's your name,
Let me hear some excuse which shall ward off the blame
Which you richly deserve, if appearance tells true.
But they say—and their saying shall benefit you—
That folks ought not to go by appearances ever,