For a month in advance; while the butler grew crusty
As his oldest port wine; and fair Bettye cried “Must I
Be the cause of this woe—from my dear mistress sever—
Lose my place and my perquisites! which my endeavour
Has still been to draw mild. Well, I never did—never!”
(Then addressing the public at large) “Did you ever?”
These arrangements concluded, Yolenta began
Packing up—the last duty of travelling man—
But the business of life
To maid, widow, or wife,