A VINDICATION OF A Marriage Life: In Answer to the Broadside against MARRIAGE.

THou dull insipid Wretch, who could'st not choose,
An apter Theme for thy Prophaner Muse:
Thy limping Pegasus though shod with Rime
Flounders and halts ev'n in the second Line.
As if like Balaam's Ass, he durst not go
His usual Pace against A Godly Foe.
Thou Mercinariest Rhymer of the Town,
Thou Pimp to all Debauches for a Crown,
Who for a Strumpet's Fee dost thus dispence.
With breach of Laws of God and Conscience.
And rather then thy Luxury controul
Wilt fell the noble Charter of thy Soul.
Nay had the other poor half Crown bin giv'n,
I dare to swear Th'adst sold thy claim to Heav'n!
From the dull Poem we collect no more
But only that thou art, A Son of a Whore
The Harlots Champion and her part dost take
Because thou lov'st her for thy Mothers sake.
And who can think him less who thus derides
The holy Priviledges of happy Brides.
Who cause himself's a Bastard won't allow
The blest effects of a conjugal Vow.
So Thieves and Rogues who boast their own esteem
Would have she honest, though as bad as them.
And with loud Oaths applaud that very crime,
For which perhaps they're hang'd another time,
Which just deserved Fate since 'tis his due;
I wish may reach our Poetaster too:
Who by a long accustom'd trick of thieving
Is the known Robber both of th' Dead and Living,
When hir'd Verse hath worn his fancy bare,
His Brain as Empty as his Pockets are.
Made desperate through want, like some mad Lad,
That's driven by necessity to Padd:
He rifles all the Poets in the Town
And what he rudely seizes, makes his own.
No Play or Character, e're yet was Writ,
But suffers by this High-way man of Wit,
Who whe reso e're he meets it bids it stand
And quietly resign at his Command.
No wonder then if such as he degrade
The spotless pleasures of a Marriage Bed;
Whose In famous Progenitors ne're knew
What honours to that happy 'state is due;
But still ran on in an Incestious Line,
And knew their Parentage no more than Swine,
Thus I dare swear, Incorrigible Sot,
Thou was't not got by any holy Plot;
But as a hated Judgement didst proceed
To punish those who did so ill a Deed.
By thy own Parents Recon'd a mishap
VVhose Birth they dreaded worser than A Clap.
Thy Mother curst thee in her very womb.
And wish'd her belly might have been thy Tomb:
So passionately mad she was to see,
That thou shoul'st spoil her 6 Months Letchery:
What shall I say thou thing of low Estate!
The longest Cur [...]s too short to reach thy Fate,
To make comparison 'twixt Hell and thee,
Were but to complement thy misery,
And by so mild a simily to press,
Too modest thoughts on thy unhappiness.
Enjoy thy self, thy Royets and thy Wenches,
Thy Pocky Pills, thy Dyet, Drink and Drenches;
Commend thy Plaisters, Scringes, and Fluxes,
Apd swear there's no such pleasure as the Fox is;
Thy snuffling Eloquence shall ne're disswade
Me from the Pleasures of my Nuptial Bed.
Marriage tho Noble Center of the Mind,
Wherein an Heaven we only quiet find:
The even Calme of fifty pleasant Years,
Wherein no storms but those of love appears,
And repetitions of our Chast delights,
Which we like Gods enjoy without affrights,
We run no hazards, but go to't with ease,
Squenching our Souls, and leaving when we please.;
Cloy'd with the pleasures of the active Night,
Our minds next day repeat the blest delight;
Flush'd with sweet kisses, our desires move
So high we drown our Duty in our Love.
Marriage, the holy order which confines,
Our stragliag faculties to good designes,
That wise retreat which bids us take a View,
Both of our selves, and of our fortunes too,
Which busie Youth could ne're abide to do
A Wife! that sweet divider of our cares!
Doubles our joy and half our sorrow shares:
If angry Destiny our Fortune shakes,
She smiles, and heals those wounds which Fortune make:
Sugar'd within humble Language, she
Calmly diverts our Growing misery.
In short a Vertuous Wife's a good estate,
And he who has her is secur'd by Fate,
To Live in Credit, and be Fortunate.

Printed for J. L. T. Ashfield. 1675

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