And You, my Dear, my Happy Dear.

A man finds home stepping out of doors.

He lives in roaming on outdoor floors,

Who would sleep on grass or thistle down

but that his parents set unfound bounds.

A homely house makes not a home.

Not like a woman's eyes.

A bed and breakfast make not love,

not like a quiet, peaceful sigh.

All men cling fast to woman,

to hope and happy lives.

What word is now more grand

or more happy than that one: Wife.