The Muses Melody in a Consort Of Poetry With Diverse occasionall and Compendious Epistles. Composed by the Author Tho. Jordan |
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On a Citizen that was so unreasonably jealous of his
wife, that he durst not trust her with the neerest in blood of her own kindred.
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 | The Muses Melody in a Consort Of Poetry |  |
On a Citizen that was so unreasonably jealous of his wife, that he durst not trust her with the neerest in blood of her own kindred.
Why how now Jack? are you the only manWhose forehead we must hang our hats upon?
Shall the luxurious folly of your youth
Araign all women at the Bar for truth?
Can no man now be sociable and good,
'Cause you have had a wildfire in your blood?
Because your wife resolves to remaine true
Must your in imagination Cuckold you?
“In what a Sea of sadness doth he swim
“Whose own strong fantsie doth make horns at him?
May we not look on her? can we devise
New wayes of copulation by the eyes?
Can smiles get children? Or if we should leave
Some words behind us, can her ears conceive?
Why dost thou search thy trunks and chests? as if
It should be possible the Placket-theif
Could get in there: is no place free from harms?
“So souldiers (when the wars began) sought Arms
“In silver Saltcellars, and springes set
“To catch a Canon in a Cabinet:
Go search her pocket too (to quit all fears)
And pluck out little Jeffery by th' ears.
'T may be Tom Thum is got into her Glove;
Search every corner of the house, and then
Sit down and coin new faces and new men.
Thou sot in jealouzie, whose fantsie vents
Impossibilities for Arguments:
Quick-sighted Quixot, thou that art inclin'd
To look about for what thou dar'st not find:
For (I protest) were I the man whom she
Would chuse to act his just revenge on thee,
Thou shouldst discover me with greater fear
Then men would pick sparks out of gunpowder.
I'd make thee be (my rigor should be such)
A Pillow to the thing thou fear'st so much:
Tempt me with hat in hand, and cast about
To keep that in which thou wouldst now bring out.
Conduct her to my very Arms, and grow
Highly contented thou couldst please me so:
The Law can not relieve in this distress
Because thy own eyes are no witnesses:
Which would exalt thy torture; thus would we
Pay thy old private scores of Luxurie:
And thy mechanick spirit, without doubt,
Will bear all this when thou art beaten to'r.
For shame reform thy folly, let her heart
Be no more measur'd out by thy desert:
Let not the ills which thou hast done, proclaim
Suggested falshood in anothers Fame:
He that thinks every man is his wife's sutor,
Defiles his Bed, and proves his own Cornutor.
| The Muses Melody in a Consort Of Poetry | |