Geron at Fourscore marry'd! 'tis too late.
No; he but wants an Heir to his Estate .

Sly keeps a Mistress of his own .
You jest; she's kept for half the Town .

Hamor in Six Months Time, no more,
Has almost travel'd Europe o'er:
Hamor must then be chang'd , no Doubt?
No; he's come Home, as he went out.

Why Doctor , cure that pleasing Ill?
He had been Mad ; but Wealthy still:
He feels, and owns he now is poor.
Better for Gripus do as much,
Who starves , yet is afraid to touch
The useless Hoards , he keeps in store.

Collin , for Love expiring, crys,
To see the Nymph , before he dies .
She went in Pity , 'tis confess'd,
She went; but deck'd in all her Best .

Do, what you can; say, what you will,
You must be curs'd , and hated still,
In spite of Fortune, Sense, or Wit;
While Florus , profligate, and vain,
Without the least Pretence , or Pain
Does ev'ry Mortal's Fancy hit.

Yet in a Sling you bear your Arm?
The Duel , Friend, was close, and warm,
Nor is my Wound so very flight.
Good Captain , do your Honour Right!
'Tis all Pretence , your Foes declare,
And that this Scarf you only wear,
That you may not be forc'd , to Fight .

You think, in yon inchanting Dome ,
Cupid , and Psyche have their Home:
Alas! my Friend , 'tis no such case.
Draw nigh, and hear the Strife and Din,
My Lord , and Lady have within,
You'll swear, Love never knew the Place.

What strange Device is this ye've made,
The Bonds of Hymen to evade,
And drive alone a sep'rate Trade?
Mourn then, ye Beaux , mourn every Swain!
The Arts of Love ye Learn in vain:
The Fair are to the Fair grown true,
And Beauty does it self subdue!

Strange Force of Beauty to controul
The Mind, and catch the sinking Soul!
Fond Proselyte! you plainly prove
No Jesuit can preach like Love ,
Nor all the Doctors of Sorbonne
E'er do, what Laura 's Smiles have done.