But when the Honey-Moon was paft,
The following Nights were foon o'ercast;
She kept her own, cou'd plead the Law,
And quarrel for a Barley-Straw:
Both, you may judge, became less kind,.
As more we knew each other's Mind:
She foon grew fullen, I, hard-hearted,
We fcolded, hated, fought, and parted..
To London, bleffed Town! I went,
She boarded at a Farm in Kent:
A Magpye from the Country fled,
And kindly, told me she was dead;
I prun'd my Feathers, cock'd my Tail,
And fet my Heart again to Sale.
My Fourth, a mere Coquet, or fuch.
I thought her, nor avails it much,.
If true or falfe, our Troubles fpring
More from the Fancy than the Thing..
Two ftaring Horns, I often faid,.
But ill become a Sparrow's Head ;.
But then, to fet that Balance even,
Your Cuckold Sparrow goes to Heaven..
The Thing you fear, suppose it done,,
If you inquire, you make it known.
Whilft at the Root, your Horns are fore,.
The more you scratch, they ake the more..
But turn the Tables, and reflect,
All may not be, that you suspect:
By the Mind's Eye, the Horns we mean,
Are only in Ideas feen,
'Tis from the Infide of the Head
Their Branches fhoot, their Antlers spread ;
Fruitful Sufpicions often bear them,
You feel 'em from the Time you fear 'em.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo ! that echo'd Word,
Offends the Ear of vulgar Bird:
But thofe of finer Tafte have found
There's nothing in't befide the Sound.
Preferment always waits on Horns,
And Houfhold Peace the Gift adorns :
This Way, or that, let Factions tend,
The Spark is ftill the Cuckold's Friend;
This Way, or that, let Madam roam,
Well-pleas'd and quiet fhe comes home.
Now weigh the Pleasure with the Pain,
The plus and minus, Lofs and Gain;
And what La Fontaine laughing says,
Is ferious Truth in fuch a Cafe ;
Who flights the Evil, finds it least,
And who does nothing, does the best.
I never ftrove to rule the Roast,
She ne'er refus'd to pledge my Toast :.
In Vifits if we chanc'd to meet,
I feem'd obliging, fhe difcreet;
We neither much caress'd nor ftrove,
But good Diffembling pass'd for Love.
T. Whate'er of Light our Eye may know, "Tis only Light itself can show:
Whate'er of Love our Heart can feel,
'Tis mutual Love alone can tell.
S. My pretty, am'rous, foolish Bird, A Moment's Patience; in one Word, The three kind Sifters broke the Chain, She dy'd, I mourn'd, and woo'd again. T. Let me, with jufter Grief, deplore My dear Columbo, now no more; Let me, with conftant Tears, bewailS. Your Sorrow does but fpoil my Tale. My Fifth fhe prov'd a jealous Wife, Lord fhield us all from fuch a Life! 'Twas Doubt, Complaint, Reply, Chit-chat, 'Twas this, To-day; To-morrow, that, Sometimes, forfooth, upon the Brook, I kept a Mifs; an honest Rook Told it a Snipe, who told a Stear, Who told it those, who told it her. One Day a Linnet and a Lark Had met me ftrolling in the Dark ;. The next, a Woodcock and an Owl Quick-fighted, grave, and fober Fowl, Wou'd, on their corp'ral Oath, alledge I kifs'd a Hen behind the Hedge. Well, Madam Turtle, to be brief, (Repeating, but renews our Grief) As once the watch'd me from a Rail, Poor Soul! her Footing chanc'd to fail, And down fhe fell, and broke her Hip, The Fever came, and then the Pip: Death did the only Cure apply ;; She was at Quiet,, so was I.
T. Cou'd Love unmov'd, these Changes view?
His Sorrows, as his Joys, are true.
S. My dearest Dove, one wise Man says, Alluding to our present Case,
We're here To-day, and gone To-morrow ;;
Then what avails fuperfl'ous Sorrow?
Another, full as wife as he,
Adds, that a marry'd Man may fee
Two happy Hours; and which are they?
The First and Laft, perhaps you'll fay;
'Tis true, when blithe fhe goes to Bed,,
And when she peaceably lies dead:
Women 'twixt Sheets are beft, 'tis faid,.
Be they of Holland or of Lead.
Now cur'd of Hymen's Hopes and Fears,
And fliding down the Vale of Years,
I hop'd to fix my future Rest,
And took a Widow to my Neft.
Ah Turtle! had he been like thee,.
Sober, yet gentle ! wife, yet free !.
But she was peevish, noify, bold,
A Witch ingrafted on a Scold :
Jove, in Pandora's Box, confin'd
An hundred Ills to vex Mankind;
To vex one Bird, in her Bandore,
He hid at least a Hundred more :
And foon as Time that Veil withdrew,
The Plagues o'er all the Parish flew ;
Her Stock of borrow'd Tears grew dry,
And native Tempests arm'd her Eye;
Black Clouds around her Forehead hung,
And Thunder rattled on her Tongue.
We, Young or Old, or Cock or Hen,
Alt liv'd in Æolus's Den ;
The nearest her, the more accurff,
Ill far'd her Friends, her Husband worst.
But Jove, amidst his Anger spares,
Remarks our Faults, but hears our Pray❜rs.
In short, fhe dy'd. Why then, fhe's dead,
Quoth I, and once again I'll wed.
Wou'd Heav'n this mourning Year was paft!
One may have better Luck at laft.
Matters, at worst, are fure to mend,
The Devil's Wife was but a Fiend.
T. Thy Tale has rais'd a Turtle's Spleen, Uxorious Inmate, Bird obfcene,
Dar'ft thou defile thefe facred Groves,
These filent Seats of faithful Loves?
Be gone, with flagging Wings fit down
On fome old Pent-house near the Town;
In Brewers Stables peck thy Grain,
Then wash it down with puddled Rain
And hear thy dirty Offspring fquall
From Bottles, on a Suburb-Wall.
Where thou haft been, return again,
Vile Bird! thou haft convers'd with Men;
Notions, like these, from Men are given,
Thofe vileft Creatures under Heaven.
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