Though lately dead, a princess and of Spain,
I am no ghost but flesh and blood again.
No time to change this dress — it is expedient
I pass for British and your most obedient.

How happy, ladies, for us all, that we
Born in this isle, by Magna Charta free,
Are not, like Spanish wives, kept under lock and key.
The Spaniard now is not like him of yore,
Who in his whiskered face his titles bore.
Nor joy nor vengeance made him smile or grin;
Fixed were his features, though the devil within.
He when once jealous, to wash out the stain,
Stalked home, stabbed madam and stalked out again.
Thanks to the times, this dagger-drawing passion
Through polished Europe is quite out of fashion.
Signor the Italian, quick of sight and hearing,
Once ever listening and for ever leering,
To cara sposa now politely kind,
He, best of husbands, is both deaf and blind.
Mynheer the Dutchman, with his sober pace,
Whene'er he finds his rib has wanted grace,
He feels no branches sprouting from his brain,
But calculation makes of loss and gain;
And when to part with her occasion's ripe,
Mynheer turns out mine frow and smokes his pipe.
When a brisk Frenchman's wife is given to prancing,
It never spoils his singing or his dancing:
" Madame, you false — de tout mon coeur — adieu;
Begar, you cocu me, I cocu you! "
He, touiours gai , dispels each jealous vapour,
Takes snuff, sings Vive l'amour! and cuts a caper.
As for John Bull — not he in upper life,
But the plain Englishman who loves his wife;
When honest John, I say, has got his doubts,
He sullen grows, scratches his head and pouts.
What is the matter with you, love? cries she;
Are you not well, my dearest? " Humph! " cries he.
You're such a brute! But, Mr. Bull, I've done.
" And if I am a brute, who made me one? "
You know my tenderness. My heart's too full!
" And so's my head — I thank you, Mrs. Bull. "
O, you base man! " Zounds! madam, there's no bearing. "
She falls a-weeping and he falls a-swearing.
With tears and oaths the storm domestic ends,
The thunder dies away, the rain descends;
She sobs, he melts, and then they kiss and friends.
Whatever ease these modern modes may bring,
A little jealousy is no bad thing.
To me, who speak from nature unrefined,
Jealousy is the bellows of the mind.
Touch it but gently and it warms desire;
If handled roughly you are all on fire;
If it stands still, affection must expire.
This truth no true philospher can doubt.
Whate'er you do, let not the flame go out.