But now, I will own, I feel rather inclined
To suspect I've some reason to alter my mind;
And the doubt in my breast daily grows a more strong one,
That they're not QUITE alike, and I've taken the wrong one.
Jane is always so gentle, obliging, and cool;
Never calls me a monster—not even a fool;
All our little contentions, 'tis she makes them up,
And she knows how much sugar to put in my cup:—
Yes, I sometimes HAVE wished—Heav'n forgive me the flaw!—
That my very dear wife was my sister-in-law.
III.
Oh, your sister-in-law, is a dangerous thing!
The daily comparisons, too, she will bring!
Wife—curl-papered, slip-shod, unwashed and undressed;
She—ringleted, booted, and "fixed in her best;"
Wife—sulky, or storming, or preaching, or prating;
She—merrily singing, or laughing, or chatting:
Then the innocent freedom her friendship allows
To the happy half-way between mother and spouse.
In short, if the Devil e'er needs a cat's-paw,
He can't find one more sure than a sister-in-law.
IV.
That no good upon earth can be had undiluted
Is a maxim experience has seldom refuted;
And preachers and poets have proved it is so
With abundance of tropes, more or less apropos.
Every light has its shade, every rose has its thorn,
The cup has its head-ache, its poppy the corn,
There's a fly in the ointment, a spot on the sun—
In short, they've used all illustrations—but one;
And have left it to me the most striking to draw—
Viz.: that none, without WIVES, can have SISTERS-IN-LAW.
THE LOBSTERS. [Footnote: Appeared at the time of the Anti-popery excitement, produced by the titles of Cardinal Wiseman, etc.] PUNCH.
As a young Lobster roamed about,
Itself and mother being out,
Their eyes at the same moment fell
On a boiled lobster's scarlet shell
"Look," said the younger; "is it true
That we might wear so bright a hue?
No coral, if I trust mine eye,
Can with its startling brilliance vie;
While you and I must be content
A dingy aspect to present."
"Proud heedless fool," the parent cried;
"Know'st thou the penalty of pride?
The tawdry finery you wish,
Has ruined this unhappy fish.
The hue so much by you desired
By his destruction was acquired—
So be contented with your lot,
Nor seek to change by going to pot."
TO SONG-BIRDS ON A SUNDAY. PUNCH.
Silence, all! ye winged choir;
Let not yon right reverend sire
Hear your happy symphony:
'Tis too good for such as he.
On the day of rest divine,
He poor townsfolk would confine
In their crowded streets and lanes,
Where they can not hear your strains.