Far from the thronged luxurious town,
Lives an enchantress of renown
Called Honour, who by secret charms
Pulls swains from yielding virgins' arms;
For her the husband leaves his wife,
Despises pleasure, health and life;
For her the Trojan refugee
Forgot the cave and went to sea;
By her the daughter of the sun,
Bewitching Circe, was outdone,
From whose bright looks, by arts unknown,
She drew Ulysses to her own.
In bloody fields she sits as gay
As other ladies at a play,
Whilst the wild sparks on which she dotes
Are cutting one another's throats.
And when these sweethearts, for their sins,
Have all the bones broke in their skins,
Of her esteem the only token
Is t' have certificates th' are broken,
Which in grave lines are cut on stone,
And in some church or chapel shown
To people that, neglecting prayer,
Have time to mind who's buried there.
Till some half-witted fellow comes
To copy what is writ on tombs;
And then, to their immortal glory,
Forsooth, they're said to live in story,
A recompense which, to a wonder,
Must please a man that's cut asunder.
'Tis thought the cruel-hearted jade
Is, and will ever be, a maid,
Because none e'er lay in her bed,
Unless they first were knocked o' th' head.