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68

Epilogue; by a Friend.

You've seen how terribly, in Days of Yore,
Resentful Dames a Husband's Falshood bore!
Sure! Those same Ancients were a dreadful Nation,
Where a wrong'd Wife's Revenge—was Desolation?
But I suppose the Comforts they were robb'd of,
Were other Things than those, with which we're fob'd of.
At least our Christian Patience is much better;
We have milder Ways of making up the Matter.
We, if a Discount in our Dues we find,
Make up the Sum and—pay our Dears in kind.
While Spouse with Miss believes he sups much better,
We treat Sir Harry snug—two Plates, and one Dumbwaiter.
In our Revenge, you see, we have some Remorse;
Nay, when the Wife's the Aggressor 'teen't much worse.
For, say, in her Amour, the Fair's found out,
We've still a Way to hush the Husband's Rout.
'Tis but to catch the Lover by Consent,
Cast him at Law, and Spouse has full Content.
Make but the Attorney once his Undertaker,
Then twelve fat Cuckolds souse the Cuckold-maker.
Thus while the Lover for his peeping pays,
Good Madam brings home Meat whene'ere she strays;
Then Back to Back the happy-dear ones lie,
And dream—of mutual Infidelity.
Now, tho' when wrong'd, we make but little pother,
'Tis for both Parties easier much than t'other.
What cou'd our Author mean, to shew a Wife
So furious, for a common Case in Life!
Could be suppose 'twould mend this modish Age,
To draw down Terrors from the Greecian Stage!
As well our zealous Justices might try
To scourge old Drury into Chastity!
Yet, we must own Both right i'th'Resolution,
To put good wholesome Laws in Execution.
And if mad Miss, nor Spouse will mend their Lives,
Turn loose the Laws—and Vengeance of their Wives.