And I think it but fair they shou’d take spell about.
All fanatic dispute and sophistical rant
I leave to the crafty professors of cant;
Content if my course from the day-break of youth,
Has steer’d by the rudder and compass of truth.
Fast wedlock I frankly confess not my whim;
Nay, the man, who best marries, I envy not him;
I love the soft sex, and I know, to my cost,
My love has not always been love’s labour lost.
Light, in freight, as a cutter return’d from a cruize,