If Beauty, Wit, or Com[*?]aisance would do, There's women that can all these wonders show, Beauty that might new fire to Hermit lend, And wit which serves that Beauty to defend, who courted, cou'd do wonders with those Charms, Till Parson conjur'd her to Husbands Arms, And tho' the same perfections still remain Yet nothing now can the dull Creature gain, No looks can win him, nor no Smiles invite, He now does her, and her Endearments slight, And leaves those Graces which he shou'd adore, To dote upon some Ugly suburb whore, whilst poor neglected Spouse remains at home, with discontent and Sorrow overcome, No prayers, nor tears, nor all the Virtuous arts. which women use to tame Rebellous Hearts. Can the Incorrigible H[*?] move, And make him own his once so promis'd love, _The Seventh Comfort_ Oh she a happy, too too happy Bride, That has a Husband snoring by her side, Belching out Fumes of undigested wine, And lies all Night like a good natur'd Swine, whose Snoring serves as Musick to her Ears, And keeps true Confort with her silent Tears, That can himself no more than _Chaos_ move, And still neglects the great affair of love, She may indeed assume the name of wife, But others know she's but a Nurse for life. _The Eighth Comfort._ A drunken Husband tho may have good nature, But here's a fullen Matrimonial Creature, will ask, and will not, will ask, and will deny Is Peevish, Cross, and cannot tell for why, Not one kind look he will to Spouse afford, Scarce speake at all, at least not one good word, All the obliging arts that she can use, To reconcile this angry pevish Spouse, Avail no more, than if she took delight, In washing Bricks, or Swarthy _Negroes_ white, Lyons, and Tyger Men have learnt to tame; Retaining nothing frightful but the Name, But Man, unruly man, that Beast of reason, 'Gainst women still continues in his Treason. No Charms his damn'd ill nature can release, _Satan_, must only _Satan_ disposes. _The Ninth Comfort._ Nor Marriage is alone the dang'rous shelf, On which a woman may destroy her self, Believe no whineing Fool that Swears he loves, And for your Pity to his Passion moves: with fair decoying words he glids the Cheat, Tells her the Sin, nor Danger are so great, The joy is past the reach of Humane view, And adds it will for ever bind him to be True: But oh! if Maids upon this Quicksand run, They're lost past hope, and are for e'er undone,