Classic Poem

FABLE XII.

A S Cupid in Cythera 's grove
Employ'd the lesser powers of love,
Some shape the bow, or fit the string,
Some give the taper shaft its wing,
Or turn the polish'd quiver's mold,
Or head the darts with temper'd gold.
Amidst their toil and various care,
Thus Hymen , with assuming air,
Addrest the God. Thou purblind chit,
Of aukward and ill-judging wit,
If matches are no better made,
At once I must forswear my trade.
You send me such ill-coupled folks,
That 'tis a shame to sell them yokes.
They squabble for a pin, a feather,
And wonder how they came together.
The husband's sullen, dogged, shy,
The wife grows flippant in reply;
He loves command and due restriction,
And she as well likes contradiction;
She never slavishly submits,
She'll have her will, or have her fits;
He this way tugs, she t'other draws,
The man grows jealous, and with cause,
Nothing can save him but divorce,
And here the wife complys of course.
When, says the Boy, had I to do
With either your affairs or you?
I never idly spend my darts;
You trade in mercenary hearts:
For settlements the lawyer's fee'd;
Is my hand witness to the Deed?
If they like cat and dog agree,
Go rail at Plutus , not at me.
Plutus appear'd, and said; 'Tis true,
In marriage, gold is all their view;
They seek not beauty, wit or sense,
And love is seldom the pretence.
All offer incense at my shrine,
And I alone the bargain sign.
How can Belinda blame her fate?
She only ask'd a great estate.
Doris was rich enough, 'tis true,
Her Lord must give her title too;
And ev'ry man, or rich or poor,
A fortune asks, and asks no more.

Av'rice, whatever shape it bears,
Must still be coupled with its cares.