She meets love's sweet caress and cheering kiss,
And wonders that her spirits ever drooped.
He never leaves her side but with a kiss,
And, when they meet again, he clasps her form
And plants love's token on her waiting lips.
Would'st thou the secret know, of happy homes?
'Tis gallantries like these that make them so.
At times when prostrate on her bed she lays,
She makes sad inroads on his stock of wealth;
Still, freely, lavishly he gives it her,