Th’ event, I’ll beg the reader back to Rollingate;
There, ’neath the portico, sweet flowers were laid
Promiscuously, to bear the lightsome tread
Of that pure virgin’s unstain’d wax-like form,
As yet a stranger to the inherent storm.
Lord Arnold had decreed that, on this day,
His labourers, servants, and his tenantry,
Should be partakers of the marriage-feast;
So ’round the stately doorway, there each guest,
(Of course—not one, but wore their very best,)