I'm thinking, (and it almost makes me mad)

How sweet a time those heathen ladies had.

Idolatry was even their Gods' own trade:

They worshipped the fine creatures they had made.

Cupid was chief of all the deities;

And love was all the fashion, in the skies.

When the sweet nymph held up the lily hand,

Jove was her humble servant at command;

The treasury of heaven was ne'er so bare,

But still there was a pension for the fair.

In all his reign, adultery was no sin;

For Jove the good example did begin.

Mark, too, when he usurped the husband's name,

How civilly he saved the lady's fame.

The secret joys of love he wisely hid;

But you, sirs, boast of more than e'er you did.

You teaze your cuckolds, to their face torment 'em;

But Jove gave his new honours to content him,

And, in the kind remembrance of the fair,

On each exalted son bestowed a star.

For these good deeds, as by the date appears,

His godship flourished full two thousand years.

{At last, when he and all his priests grew old,

{The ladies grew in their devotion cold;

{And that false worship would no longer hold.

Severity of life did next begin;

And always does, when we no more can sin.

That doctrine, too, so hard in practice lies,

That the next age may see another rise.

{Then, pagan gods may once again succeed:

{And Jove, or Mars, be ready, at our need,

{To get young godlings; and so mend our breed.