The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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A Satire on MARRIAGE.
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
A Satire on MARRIAGE.
The Husband's the Pilot, the Wife is the Ocean,
He always in Danger, she always in Motion;
And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcass,
Twice ventures a Drowning, and Faith that's a hard Case;
Ev'n at our own Weapons the Females defeat us,
And Death, only Death, can sign our Quietus.
Not to tell ye sad Stories of Liberty lost,
How our Mirth is all pall'd, and our Pleasure all crost;
This Pagan Confinement, this damnable Station,
Suits no Order, nor Age, nor Degree in the Nation.
He always in Danger, she always in Motion;
And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcass,
Twice ventures a Drowning, and Faith that's a hard Case;
Ev'n at our own Weapons the Females defeat us,
And Death, only Death, can sign our Quietus.
Not to tell ye sad Stories of Liberty lost,
How our Mirth is all pall'd, and our Pleasure all crost;
This Pagan Confinement, this damnable Station,
Suits no Order, nor Age, nor Degree in the Nation.
The Levite it keeps from Parochial Duty,
For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty?
The Rich it alarms with Expences and Trouble,
And a poor Beast you know, can scarce carry double;
For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty?
The Rich it alarms with Expences and Trouble,
And a poor Beast you know, can scarce carry double;
'Twas invented, they tell you to keep us from falling,
Oh the Virtue and Grace of a shrill Caterwauling.
But it palls in your Game.—Ah, but how do you know, Sir,
How often your Neighbour breaks up your Inclosure?
Oh the Virtue and Grace of a shrill Caterwauling.
But it palls in your Game.—Ah, but how do you know, Sir,
How often your Neighbour breaks up your Inclosure?
For this is the principle Comfort of Marriage,
You must eat, though a Hundred have spit in your Porrige.
If at Night you're unactive, and fail of performing,
Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Bloodshed next Morning.
Cries the Bone of your Side, thanks dear Mr. Horner,
This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner.
Then to make up the Breach, all your Strength you must rally,
And labour and sweat like a Slave at the Gally.
Yet still you must charge, oh blessed Condition,
Tho' you know, to your cost you've no Ammunition.
'Till at last my dear mortify'd Tool of a Man,
You're not able to make a poor Flash in the Pan.
You must eat, though a Hundred have spit in your Porrige.
If at Night you're unactive, and fail of performing,
Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Bloodshed next Morning.
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This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner.
Then to make up the Breach, all your Strength you must rally,
And labour and sweat like a Slave at the Gally.
Yet still you must charge, oh blessed Condition,
Tho' you know, to your cost you've no Ammunition.
'Till at last my dear mortify'd Tool of a Man,
You're not able to make a poor Flash in the Pan.
Fire, Female and Flood, begin with a Letter,
And the World's for them all not a Farthing the better,
Your Flood soon is gone, and your Fire you may humble,
If into the Flame store of Water you tumble;
But to cool the damn'd Heat of your Wives Titillation,
You may use half the Engines and Pumps in the Nation,
But may piss out as well the last Conflagration.
Thus, Sir, I have sent you my Thoughts of the Matter,
Judge you as you please, but I scorn for to flatter.
And the World's for them all not a Farthing the better,
Your Flood soon is gone, and your Fire you may humble,
If into the Flame store of Water you tumble;
But to cool the damn'd Heat of your Wives Titillation,
You may use half the Engines and Pumps in the Nation,
But may piss out as well the last Conflagration.
Thus, Sir, I have sent you my Thoughts of the Matter,
Judge you as you please, but I scorn for to flatter.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |