certain Emma

I feel certain Emma 
should have married the
lot of them.

Give her a lesson in manners!
All bad. Imagine! Frank Churchill
stalking the gothic halls of the abbey,
fingering old petticoats as that bat Bates
rolled on, unstoppably while peeved
as an old warhorse, Mr. Woodhouse 
doled out gruel and Mr. Knightley drove 
sixteen miles both ways to London 
to give it a haircut in the 
worst style

ever.

As to timing! Meanwhile, Emma
would have judged it best, finding
herself obliged (on the pianoforte, as
usual), as only proper for a member
of her high standing, popping and
whelping out brats by the ninemonth
and twelvemonth, lines forming
to either side, claiming
these prodigies
as "prodigious productions,"
fecund and fickle as all heck, as nieces
and nephews depending upon relation. She!
The blushing and proper object! The
abject godmother and aunt to all, so to speak
by general agreement among only
the best sort of people,
to look 

away?  
Rely on it!
Trust nothing else! Mr. 
Elton himself could not 
concoct a worse sermon 
with a theme of drunken, 
tawdry apocalypse if he'd 
married the cow's maid 
and milked her slippers 
off for an act of charity! Why, 
the dancing, to-doings and 
goings-on put Bath itself 
to healthy shame, aglow
with a demure, vulgar
vitality almost winsomely
fetching, stepping down,
turned and left the continent
(which by then had grown too 
hot to hold them all) (at all) behind,
quite stooped and conquered by oh, 

womanly judgment
, call it. 

I make no wild erotic surmise here, 
by observing that she among all God's
creatures had pretty surely backed and 
painted herself into a pretty pickle, and
that probably the only way out was
honour, daring, darling couth, the merest 
kiss of mischief and a clout on the skull
(not hers) by some kind, stout oaken
cudgel for even raising the specter
of such conduct. Probably. No, 

possibly, surely