Which makes the poor Man cry out,
Rigid fate, Marriage State,
No reprieve but the Grave, oh 'tis hard Condition.
Come I'll tell you how this Wife to bow,
And quickly bring her to her last;
Your Senses please, indulge your ease,
But resist no joy and each humour taste,
Then let her squal, and tear and bawl,
And with whining cry her Eyes out,
Take a Flask, double Flask,