  Spoke by the City-Bride. You met with good Intention to be witty, And rally the Grave Cuckolds of the City; But disappointed of your Recreation, I in your Looks can read the Play’s Damnation. Lord! how ye stare to find an honest Bride, A thing you think a Monster in Cheapside. Whither you boast that you so often come, And leave your footmen to perform at home. Yet ’tis no little Comfort t’ us howe’re, You oftner bring th’ Estate than get the Heir. Unjustly therefore you your Fortune blame, She’s kinder to your Blood that to your Name. After all this, I know you think it Pity, That I shou’d break the Custom of the City: I hear a Beau cry, ’tis some damn’d Mistaker; A Cheap-side Vertue, City Cuckold maker. This is a Fault no Gentleman can pardon, It gives Cheapside the Sins of Covent-Garden: We must refine on Vice, and take new Measures, Since dull chain’d Cits invade our darling Pleasures. Take my Advice, employ at home your Backs, Or Locket’s Revels may revenge Pontack’s: This Cuckolding to you’s a losing Trade, That pay for making, and for being made. The Ladies will my Character excuse, And not condemn a Vertue which they use. ’Tis of Necessity, not Inclination: They’d be contented in their proper Houses, Cou’d they reform their unperforming Spouses. Yet if some wanton Appetites there be, How many are there that can fast like me. Those are enow, if I have their Applause, The Poet has his End, and I my Cause. FINIS. |
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