_Make me a Cuckold, reading Rogue: No pulpit serve but Susan’s, Must Susan’s smock your pulpit be? Ile take away that Nusance. And though Priest wept, and wife did beg, Churl slighted words and tears, And at one gash from Curate took Musquet and Bandaliers._ This feare of loosing his generals made him to shake worse than if he had had a Tertian ague, and therefore to prevent it he crept underneath the bed, whilest my Aunt went down stairs intending to smother up all with a dissembling kiss; but when she saw the door was fast, and my uncle asked her why she locked it? she could not tell what answer to make at present; but being well principled in the mysteries of _Venus_, she soon recollected her self, and with a sorrowfull voice (as if she had been sick of a feaver for a fortnight together) she pewled out these words: _Ah dear Husband_ (said she) _I was lately taken with such a great swimming in my head, as not able to sit up longer, I was forced to go up stairs and lie down upon the bed; in the mean time I suppose your unhappy kinsman (who minds nothing but mischief) hath in revenge of me for causing him to be beaten, locked the door, and thrown away the key_. Whilest she was thus exclaiming on me, I came in puffing and blowing as seeming quite orewearied with play, and as if ignorant of what had hapned, asked very earnestly what was the matter? My Aunt though she were mue’d up like a hawk, yet hearing my tongue, could not forbear to vend her spleen against me in these words: _You impudent young Rogue_ (said she) _doe you act mischief and then plead ignorance? O that I were but well for thy sake, I would make every limb of thee feel the weight of my displeasure_, concluding her invective with as horrid a yelling as an old woman grown hoars with crying of Sprats, or as a company of dogs when they bark at the Moon.