Against Her Foes Religion Well Defends Her

Feel You The Barren Flattery Of A Rhyme? Can Poets Soothe You, When You Pine For Bread, By Winding Myrtle Round Your Ruin'd Shed?

Oh! 'tis A Precious Thing, When Wives Are Dead, To Find Such Numbers Who Will Serve Instead: And In Whatever State A Man Be Thrown, 'tis That Precisely They Would Wish Their Own.

In Idle Wishes, Fools Supinely Stay. Be There A Will And Wisdom Finds A Way.

The Wife Was Pretty, Trifling, Childish, Weak; She Could Not Think, But Would Not Cease To Speak.

Oh How The Passions, Insolent And Strong, Bear Our Weak Minds Their Rapid Course Along; Make Us The Madness Of Their Will Obey; Then Die And Leave Us To Our Griefs As Prey!