 | Small poems of Divers sorts |  |
107. To my Wife.
My Mall, how we desire both to go down,And still how business stayes us in the town!
Since Plays are silenc'd by the Presbyter,
And Wine is grown so very naught and dear;
London seems frowning like a Step-dame now,
That look'd before with so serene a Brow.
189
To our Loves pledges our dear Mall and Tom.
| Small poems of Divers sorts | |