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WHAT pleasure to meA bridegroom would be!When married we are,They call us mamma.No need then to sew,To school we ne'er go;Command uncontroll'd,Have maids, whom to scold;Choose clothes at our ease,Of what tradesmen we please;Walk freely about,And go to each rout,And unrestrained areBy papa or mamma.

Far, far behind,--Into a sea expands,

Fails in conception; wherefore fails it so?