Your Poisonous Tongue at least will blast her Fame, } If her you can't; you'l ruin her good Name. } Is this the single Life you boast so much, Are these the Charmes, that does your Fancy tutch, Are these the Blessings which you have enjoy'd, Are these the arts your lustful thoughts imploy'd; 'Tis plain your roving fancy is far worse, Than that Blest state which you esteem a Curse; You make it so by your insatiate mind, Unbounded lust can never be confin'd. It is a Riddle which I can't unfould That any Man, can such base notions hold, Disgrace all order, Marriage Bed defy And gives Mankind and God himself the lye, It is a shame, that any Man of Sense, Should have so damn'd a_ stock _of Impudence; Controul his Maker; and with his Laws dispence. Blasphemeous wretch, the scorn of human race, The very spawn of what is vile and base: Who with your cursed pen, you're not afraid To cross the end for which Mankind was made; Alas! what could poor helpless Man have done If he had been to live on Earth alone,_ He'd been the worst of all God's vast Creation, And sunk below the sence of procreation: He'd muddl'd out his Days in private fear, And when in sorrow none with him to share: The Birds and Beasts each other chose his Mate, And are above the stint of single Fate; The whole Creation, hate's a single Life, And shall not Man enjoy a loving Wife? Sure this Wife Hater, lately came from Hell To teach poor single Mortals to rebel, Against the sacred Laws of God and Man From whence the state of Wedlock first began, To make our Minds diviner charmes to suite, Which makes the differance 'twixt a Man and Bruite; But this blasphemous Scribler tramples down, These antient Fences; of such great renown, And Lanshes forth among the Shelves and Rocks And plead's for plagues of single Life and Pox: He Courts in Print, all others to be Lewd, Condemns a Wife and swears he will be rude: He talks of Roving from each Pole, to Pole, And with fresh lustful pleasures drown his Soul: He calls that ease, which Christians counts a Sin, And walks the Road which Thives and Rogues go in: He plainly tells how he does spend his time His lazey progress, shewes what is his Crime His baudy Books, with Calves skin fenced round, A proof enough, wherein his faults abound. He talks of moderation or'e a Glass } But mentions none of that when with his Lass, } He's Knave in Grain; a Blockhead and an Ass. } Because a Cuckold's Life was his hard fate, Must Wedlock be abused at this rate? Because he had a strumpit for his Wife, He now commends a mopish single Life. Let him content himself to live a Drone, In some dark Corner of the World alone; And trouble not his Brains with our blest State, Which now is far above his wretched fate; He talks of prayers a little while before, And then he curss'd his Wife and call'd her whore. Oh! meddley of confusion, never worse, Must pray, then swear, give thanks to God and curse. The Wife he lost, has faults as black as Hell. }