Above a Year or two I always thought My Wife so good that she cou'd not be naught, Till one Night coming home I caught a Spark Sat in my Parlor by her in the Dark, In mighty Pet I call'd for Candles strait, Doubting that I poor Fool was come too late: T'avert the Burthen which is made to grow On such who enters into Cuckolds Row. Hower'e as I was thinking of the best, And as I nothing saw contented rest, My am'rous Wife's Gallant, before he went, Did shew enough t'encrease my Discontent For he wou'd slily pull her Petticoat, Nod, Wink, and put into her Hand a Note, Whisper her in the Ear, or touch her Foot With many other private Signs to boot, All which confirm'd my Jealousie the more, And made me think 'em to be Rogue and Whore, But as I knew my Wife a bawling Slut, My Horns into my Pocket did I put For Quietness, which yet I seldom had, So I thro' Cuckoldom run really Mad. _The fifth Comfort of Cuckoldom._ When I poor I unto a Wife was bound, I wish I had been Bury'd under Ground, For to my Grief I found her both before And after Marriage too to be a Whore. But when I found the Beast of such a Breed, I soldier turn'd, and with a Baw'd agreed To let her out at half a Crown a Week Who undertook she shou'd not be too seek; For Custom, but said, she must for her pains, From th' insatiate Whore have double Gains. _The Sixth Comfort of Cuckoldom._ Finding my Wife by Whoring nothing get, But to maintain her Sparks ran me in Debt; Her Whoring gratis made me really vext, So Shop I shut, and fled to _Holland_ next. _The Seventh Comfort of Cuckoldom._ While I was but into the Country gone, To give some Chapmen there the gentle Dun Mean time a Rubbers she with some had play'd, And in the Powd'ring Tub was quickly laid, Unknown to me, and had been secret still, But that the Surgeon bringing in his Bill When I came Home, the Murder so came out, And still my Wife is Whore enough I doubt. _The Eighth Comfort of Cuckoldom._ A sordid Lecher coming very old To tempt my Spouse with Silver and with Gold, She told me of't, and said, she cou'd not fawn, On him, or's Gold, to lay her Soul in pawn. By this I thought her Honest, till my maid Inform'd me shortly what Lew'd Tricks she play I Twitted then my Wife's Hypocrisie, Who Impudently did Reply to me; Old Flesh she Loath'd, as having in it left No Gravy, and of all it's Juice bereft, But if the Flesh was Young and to her mind, She'd to one Dish would never be confin'd.