But the least pitied is your Aged Ass, Who tho full Sixty, wou'd for Forty pass: And that he may be sure a Crop to have, And carry _Horns_ fresh budding to his Grave, On one of Twenty, blooming as a Rose, His dry and wither'd Carkass he bestows: She jilts, intrigues, and plays upon him still, Keeps her Gallants, and Rambles at her Will; Do's nothing but her Pride and Pleasure mind, And throws his Gold like Chaff before the Wind; Until at length she beggars the old Slave, And brings his Gray-Hairs with Sorrow to the Grave. _The Sixth Comfort,_ &c. The next in course is he that weds a Shrew; One that will talk, and wear the Breeches too; Governs, insults, do's what e'er she thinks fit, And he good Man, must to her Will submit; Mannages all Affairs at home, abroad, While he a Cypher seems, and stands for naught; When e'er he speaks, she snaps him, and crys, _Pray hold your Tongue, who was't made you so wife? You will be prating, though you nothing know:_ This he must bear, and be contented too, See his Friends slighted, and must silent be, Till Death shall from the Torment set him free. _The Seventh Comfort,_ &c. Another that has liv'd some Years in Peace, A wedded Life--do's now in strength decrease, Nor able is to satisfie that Debt, Which Marriage claims, and Women still expect, Wherefore she now withdraws her Love and Care, Reviles, and twits him of his Slights to her; Makes it a daily Quarrel, flings and throws, And Peace is now a Stranger to his House; Nay, even his Servants, and his Children too, E'en act the same they see the Mother do, While he declining, and consumptive sits, Bears all with patience, and to all submits. _The Eighth Comfort,_ &c. Another _Lady_, nicer bred and born, Makes Huswif'ry, and Providence her Scorn Her Maid and she must to the _Wells_ repair, She is not well, and goes to take the Air: The House to Servants she entrusts at home, And down on _Saturday_ her Spouse must come, And with him something very Costly bring, Or Treat her there with some nice pretty thing, She brought a Fortune, and it must be so, But home to Rack and Ruin all do's go, He sums his Gains, and finds it will not do; In that for fifteen hundred pound she brought, He'd better had a Huswife in her Smock. _The Ninth Comfort,_ &c.