Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/61

"Oh, well," says he, "you flitting with us too—
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again".
⁠John. He left his wife behind; for so I heard.
⁠James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once:
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs.
⁠John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back—
'Tis now at least ten years—and then she was—
You could not light upon a sweeter thing:
A body slight and round, and like a pear
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin
As clean and white as privet when it flowers.
⁠James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved
At first like dove and dove were cat and dog.
She was the daughter of a cottager,
Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride,
New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd
To what she is: a nature never kind!
Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say.
Kind nature is the best: those manners next
That fit us like a nature second-hand;
Which are indeed the manners of the great.