Classic Poem

Here lies the Body of Barren Peg ,
Who had no Issue, but her Leg:
But, to her Praise, for she had that Cunning,
Whilst one stood still, the other was running.

Beaugard.

I T can't be he! Courtine! the Brisk! the Gay!
What Hag has stoll'n the Fiend and Man away?
What Monster is he metamorphos'd to?
How all unlike the jolly Thing we knew?
Such Underwoods have over-run the Coast,
In his Beard's Thicket all his Face is lost;
That hanging Look sad Guesses does invite,
And on his wrinkled Forehead, Husband write.

Courtine.

For thy unseasonable Mirth a Curse,
As heavy as that Fiend that haunts me thus;
That Constellation of Plagues be thine,
Which spightful Heaven has doom'd with Sylvia mine:
Be thou condemn'd to lug an endless Life,
The Gally-Slave to an eternal Wife.

Beaugard.

A friendly Wish! But Partners would destroy
That Bliss, which none but one can well enjoy:
Lucky Courtine , how ev'n in spight of me
Does thy good Fortune make me envy thee?
How like the neat Sir Davy , sage and wise,
New Aldermen sit budding in her Eyes!
A Face so fair as Sylvia 's sure might move,
Spight of his Hymns, a bloodless Angel's Love;
And then what dull Platonick can behold
The Beauty, and the Virtue of her Gold?
The Atheist thinks a merry Life does well,
Bartering short pleasant Toys for a long future Hell.
To Lovers thus the happy Night alone
For a whole Age of Torments might attone;
After a Day of Eating, which might vie
With the Lord Mayor's, or shrival Luxury:
See where a Drove of envious wishing Friends
Around thy Bed, the Bower of Bliss attends;
Each Squinting Gallant prays thy Place were his,
And by Delays excel the coming Bliss:
Sack-posset then, while each green Virgin throws
Prophetick Stocking at thy patient Nose.
Sack-posset still, and when they that remove,
Next — — enters the sweet Sillibub of LOVE.
Soft Musick then thy Laziness must chide,
And give a fair Excuse to leave the Bride;
Not wooing Puss can louder Songs compose,
Nor more Diversity of Airs than those.
Harmonious City-Musick; such a Bliss,
'Twere worth the while to marry but for this.
Nor must you think the Joys should end so soon,
There's yet a live-long heavenly-hony-moon ;
In Wedlocks pleasing Team, with equal Law,
Thy courteous Yoke-fellow must ever draw,
While Pictures of thy kind laborious Bride
Shall still run softly bellowing by thy Side.

Courtine.

Since my fair Pack so wond'rously does please,
Thy Shoulders lend, and be an Hercules:
I feel a Load, a heavy Hell above,
For the expected gaudy Heaven of Love;
How then would you those Tinsel Pleasures find
With which fly jilting Nature bribes Mankind?
SATED FRUITION does the Bliss destroy,
And the next Moment knows not the Tumultuous Joy.
Who can reflect without just Rage and Fright
And deep Regret on such a mean Delight?
Ye Gods! if these Loves highest Banquets be,
Brutes can love me, and better far than we:
This knew fly Jove , who when he left the Skies,
Chose rather any other Beast's Disguise,
The Bull, nay, th'improportionable Swan,
Much more the lusty Ass can rival Man,
Who all their Pleasure in Possession find,
Without the curst Allay, and Sting behind;
As Nature prompts, promiscuously they rove,
And hunt free Joys , through ev'ry Field and Grove,
But in a Pound , what Brutes wou'd e'en make Love?
Man, Man alone is damn'd to grinding still,
And in the Prison of his Cage must bill;
Like a blind Stallion ever drudges on,
And gets new Slaves for Wives to ride upon;
Night-mar'd , like me, whom gastly Sights pursue,
And scar'd with her lean Ghost, whom once I knew.
That Sylvia 's now no more, who, big with Charms ,
Dropt a whole Dow'r of Pleasure in your Arms;
Loose hangs the Flower, lately so fresh and gay,
And every Tempest bears new Leaves away.
Unlovely now it flags, and overblown,
And ev'ry Grace, and ev'ry Charm is gone;
Her Tenderness is fond, and awkward grows;
And all her Female Art affected shows.
True Hag all o'er: Ugly she grows, and old,
And knowing this, turns jealous and a Scold;
Fletcher 's Wife-tamer durst not dare to love her,
Xantippe was a patient Grizel to her;
Each Look, each Step I tread's by her survey'd;
She haunts me like my Conscience, or my Shade,
Expects a Statue I should constant prove,
And daily damns my unperforming Love:
Whene'er for Quiets-sake she hooks me in,
Heavens! how she ruffles in her Buckrum Skin,
And frights my Soul away from the Imbrace;
No Mummy looks so dreadful as her Face.
So when from Gibbets and the Common-shore
Th' officious Devil has pimp'd, and brought his Friend a Whore,
So shrieks the Wretch, when he next Morn has spy'd
A ghastly Carcass rotting by his side.
Just such a Lot is mine; I drudge my Life
Worse than with Legion far, possess'd with WIFE:
Wou'd Fate and Hell some higher Ill provide,
And club for any other Plague beside,
I soon should easy and contented grow,
In spight of Bolts above, and Flames below:
No — — such luxurious Ease I ask in vain,
And like poor Adam must alive remain,
Whom 'vengeful Fate did to curs'd Woman chain,
In Judgment gave him an unkind Reprieve,
And damn'd him to ten thousand Hells in Eve .