As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
And pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down.
He will hold thee in the winter, when his fooleries begin,
Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin.
What is this? his legs are bending! think'st thou he is weary, faint?
Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint!
Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the bygone time?
Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime!
Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum
Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb—