Then—but why should I confide you, what you know as
well as I do?
How she look'd up like an angel, (I can see her figure still!)
"I am yours, sir, if you'll take me—if you'll marry me
and make me
"A fine Lady, like my Missis:"—how I cried, "By
Jove, I WILL!"
How thenceforward ev'ry morning, wet and wind and
weather scorning,
By the steps of Number 7, punctual as the clock I past,—