| |
| YOU’VE 1 seen a Pair of faithful Lovers die: | |
| And much you care, for most of you will cry, | |
| ’Twas a just Judgment on their Constancy. | |
| For, Heaven be thank’d, we live in such an Age, | |
| When no man dies for Love, but on the Stage: | 5 |
| And ev’n those Martyrs are but rare in Plays; | |
| A cursed sign how much true Faith decays: | |
| Love is no more a violent desire; | |
| ’Tis a meer Metaphor, a painted Fire. | |
| In all our Sex, the name examin’d well, | 10 |
| Is Pride to gain, and Vanity to tell. | |
| In Woman, ’tis of subtil int’rest made; | |
| Curse on the Punk that made it first a Trade! | |
| She first did Wits Prerogative remove, | |
| And made a Fool presume to prate of Love. | 15 |
| Let Honour and Perferment go for Gold, | |
| But glorious Beauty is not to be sold; | |
| Or, if it be, ’tis at a rate so high, | |
| That nothing but adoring it shou’d buy. | |
| Yet the rich Cullies may their boasting spare; | 20 |
| They purchase but sophisticated Ware. | |
| ’Tis Prodigality that buys deceit, | |
| Where both the Giver, and the Taker cheat. | |
| Men but refine on the old Half-Crown way; | |
| And Women fight, like Swizzers, for their Pay. | 25 |
