Four-and-twenty wailings o'er the wedded state,
Yet twice as many every day 'tis not her fate;
Pretending to the world 'tis mere choice that has led
To singleness—yet choosing all the while to be wed,
If any doting fool could be doting fool enough
To bid for such a breaking down piece of stuff;
For any such a winter, that has shed the flowers of spring,
Whose autumn too is flown; nor left its fruit or any thing!
Yes, such are the marks deep branded on a class
Of busy blanks, non-entities, creation's very farce;