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Thrice happy's the wooing that's not long adoing. So much time is saved in the billing and cooing.

Why don't the men propose, mamma? Why don't the men propose?

After the number of the days in which ye searched the land, even forty days, each day for a year, shall ye bear your iniquities, even forty years, and ye shall know my breach of promise.

There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.

'Twas he that ranged the words at random flung, Pierced the fair pearls and them together strung.

"Yes," I answered you last night; "No," this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

Woo the fair one when around Early birds are singing; When o'er all the fragrant ground Early herbs are springing: When the brookside, bank, and grove All with blossom laden, Shine with beauty, breathe of love, Woo the timid maiden.

Alas! to seize the moment When the heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion, Is not a woman's part. If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage, They cannot seek his hand.

Duncan Gray cam here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't! On blithe Yuletide when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't! Maggie coost her head fu' high, Looked asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh: Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' favours secret, sweet and precious.

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan A lady fair. Wha does the utmost that he can Will whyles do mair.

How often in the summer-tide, His graver business set aside, His stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed As to the pipe of Pan, Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride Across the fields to Anne.

Blessed is the wooing That is not long a-doing.

He that will win his dame must do As love does when he draws his bow; With one hand thrust the lady from, And with the other pull her home.

She that with poetry is won, Is but a desk to write upon; And what men say of her they mean No more than on the thing they lean.

Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs.

'Tis an old lesson; time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost.

And whispering, "I will ne'er consent," consented.

There is a tide in the affairs of women Which, taken at the flood, leads--God knows where.