When first our poet set himself to write, Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night; He laid about him, and did so bestir him, His muse could never lie in quiet for him: But now his honey-moon is gone and past, Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last: And he is bound, as civil husbands do, To strain himself, in complaisance to you: To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss, Like the faint smacking of an after-kiss. But you, like wives ill pleased, supply his want; Each writing monsieur is a fresh gallant: And though, perhaps, 'twas done as well before, Yet still there's something in a new amour. Your several poets work with several tools, One gets you wits, another gets you fools: This pleases you with some by-stroke of wit, This finds some cranny that was never hit. But should these janty lovers daily come To do your work, like your good man at home, Their fine small-timbered wits would soon decay; These are gallants but for a holiday. Others you had, who oftner have appeared, Whom, for mere impotence, you have cashiered: Such as at first came on with pomp and glory, But, overstraining, soon fell flat before ye. Their useless weight, with patience, long was born, But at the last you threw them off with scorn. As for the poet of this present night, } Though now he claims in you a husband's right, } He will not hinder you of fresh delight. } He, like a seaman, seldom will appear; And means to trouble home but thrice a-year: That only time from your gallants he'll borrow; Be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow.