This I forgave, she promis'd to reclaim,
Vow'd future truth if I'd conceal the shame;
But what Strange Adamantine Chain can bind,
Woman corrupted to be just or kind:
Or how can Man to an adultress shew
That Love, which to a faithful Wife is due.
I strugled hard, and all my Passions chekt,
And chang'd Revenge into a mild Respect,
That Good for Ill return'd might touch hear near,
And Gratitude might bind her more tan fear;
My former Love I every day renew'd;
And all the Signals of Oblivion shew'd;
Wink'd at small Faults, wou'd no such Trifles mind,
As accidental Failings not designed.
I all things to her Temper easie made,
Scorn'd to reflect, and hated to upbraid;
She chose (and rich it was) her own Attire,
Nay, had what a proud Woman could desire.
Thus the new Covenant I strictly kept,
And oft in private for her Failings wept,
Yet bore with seeming Cheerfulness those Cares,
That bring a Man too soon to grisled Hairs.
But all this kindness I dispens'd in vain.
Where Lust and base Ingratitude remain.
Lust, which if once in Female fancy fix'd,
Burns like Salt Petre, with driy Touchwood mix'd:
And tho' cold Fear for time may stop its force, }
Twill soon like Fire confin'd, break out the worse, }
Or like a Tide obstucted, re-assume its course. }
No Art cou'd e'e presume the stinking Stote,
Or change the lecherous Nature of the Goat.
No skilful Whitster ever found the flight,
To wash or bleach an Ethiopian White.
No gentle Usage truly will Asswage,
A Tyger's fierceness, or a Lyon's rage,
Stripes and severe Correction is the way,
Whence once they're thro'ly Conquer'd, they'll obey,
'Tis Whip and Spur, Commanding Reign and Bit,
That makes the unruly head-strong Horse submit,
So stubborn faithless Woman must be us'd,
Or Man by Woman basely be abus'd.
For after all the Endearments I should show,
At last she turn'd both Libertine and Shrow,
From my Submission grew perverse and proud,
Crabbed as Varges, and as Thunder loud;
Did what she pleas'd, would no Obedience own,
And redicul'd the Patience I had shown.
Fear'd no sharp threatnings, valued no disgrace,
But flung the wrongs she'd done me in my Face;
Grew still more head strong, turbulent and Lewd,
Filling my Mansion with a spurious brood.
Thus Brutal Lust her humane Reason drown'd,
And her loose Tail obliged the Country round;
Advice, Reproof, Pray'rs, Tears, were flung away,
For still she grew mord wicked ev'ry day;
Till By her equals scorn'd, my Servants fed,
The Brutal Rage of her adultrous bed.
Nay, in my absence trucled to my Groom,
And hug'd the servile Traytor in my Room;
When these strange Tydings, Thunder struck my Ear,
And such Inhumane Wrongs were made appear,
On these just Grounds for a Divorce I su'd, }
At last that head-strong Tyrant wife subdu'd, }
Cancel'd the marriage-bonds, and basterdiz'd her brood. }
Woman, thou worst of all Church-plagues, farewel;
Bad at the best, but at the worst a Hell;
Thou truss of wormwood, bitter Teaz of Life,
Thou Nursery of humane cares a wife.
Thou Apple-Eating Trayt'riss who began
The Wrath of Heav'n, and Miseries of Man,
And hast with never-failing diligence,
Improv'd the Curse to humane Race e'er since.
Farewel Church-juggle that enslav'd my Life,
But bless that Pow'r that rid me of my Wife.
And now the Laws once more have set me free,
If Woman can again prevail with me,
My Flesh and Bones shall make my Wedding-Feast, }
And none shall be Invited as my Guest, }
T' attend my Bride, but th' Devil and a Priest. }
FINIS.
THE CHOICE,
OR,
THE Pleasures of a Country—LIFE, &c.
If Heav'n the grateful Liberty wou'd give,
That I might chuse my Method how to live
And all those Hours propitious Fate shou'd lend,
In blisful Ease and Satisfaction spend.
Near some fair Town I'd have a private Seat,
Built Uniform, not little, nor to great:
Better if on a rising Ground it stood,
Fields on this side, on that a Neighb'ring Wood.
It shou'd within no other things contain,
But what are Useful, Necessary Plain:
Methinks 'tis Nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure
The needless pomp of gawdy Furniture:
A little Garden, gratefule to the Eye,
And a cool Rilvulet run Murmuring by:
On whose delicious Banks a stately Row,
Of shady Limes, or Sicamores, shou'd grow.
At th' end of which a silent Study plac'd,
Shou'd with the Noblest Authors there be grac'd.
Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty Lines,
Immortal Wit, and solid Learning Shines.