Nor is’t his tongue, that has this conquest won,
For that at least is equalled by my own:
His carriage can to none obliging be,
’Tis rude, affected, full of vanity:
Strangely ill natur’d, peevish and unkind,
Unconstant, false, to jealousy inclin’d:
His temper could not have so great a power,
’Tis mutable, and changes every hour:
Those vigorous years that women so adore
Are past in him: he’s twice my age and more;