Put a good face upon it.

What though?
My first sweetheart was Bet Butterfield, but what of that?
What must be must be; grief will never fill the belly.

She was a fine strapping wench, that is the truth of it! five foot ten inches, and as stout as a trooper.

Oh, she would do a power of work! Up early and down late; milked ten cows with her own hands; on with her cardinal, rode to market between her panniers, fair weather and foul, hail, blow, or snow.

It would have done your heart good to have seen her frost-bitten cheeks, as red as a beefen from her own orchard! Ah! she was a maid of mettle; would romp with the harvestmen, slap one upon the back, wrestle with another, and had a rogue's trick and a joke for all round.