A Song

Now ponder well, ye husbands dear,
The fate of wives , too bright;
A woeful cause you have to fear,
Their day will turn to night .

At first all gay , and rais'd with joy ,
They charm the poor man's heart ;
With smiling eyes , they sport, and toy,
And gild the nuptial dart .

But ah! too soon, they quench their fire ;
(Alas! good hearer, weep!)
Then gape, and stretch, and yawn, and tire,
And hum their souls to sleep!
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