Sigh’d e’er I spoke, and when I spoke look’d Pale,
In words confus’d disclos’d my mournful Tale? 
Unpractised and Amour’s fine Speeches coin’d,
But could not utter what I well design’d. 
Warm’d by her Charms ’gainst Bashfulness I strove,
And trembling far, and stammer’d out my Love;
Told her how greatly I admir’d and fear’d,
Which she ’twixt Coyness and Compassion heard,
Grutch’d no Expence of Money, or of Time,
And thought that not to adore her was a Crime;
The more each Visit I acquainted grew,
Yet every time found something in her new. 
Who was above her Sex so fortunate,
She had a Charm for Man in every State;
Beauty for the Youthful, Prudence for the Old,
Scripture for the Godly, for the Miser Gold;
Wit for the Ingenious, silence for the Grave,
Flatt’ry for the Fool, and Cunning for the Knave: 
Compounded thus of such Varieties, }
She had a knack to every Temper please, }
And as her self thought fit was every one of these. }
I lov’d, I sigh’d and vow’d, talk’d, whin’d, and pray’d,
And at her Feet my panting Heart I lay’d;
She smil’d, then frown’d, was now reserv’d, then free,
And as she plaid her part, oft chang’d her Key;
Not through Fantastick Humour but Design,
To try me throughly e’er she should be mine,
Because she wanted in one Man to have,
A Husband, Lover, Cuckold and a Slave. 
So Travellers, before a Horse they buy,
His Speed, his Paces, and his Temper try,
Whether he’ll answer Whip and Spur, thence Judge,
If the poor Beast will prove a patient Drudge: 
When she by wiles had heightned my Desire,
And fain’d Love’s sparkles to a raging Fire;
Made now for Wedlock, or for Bedlam fit. 
Thus Passion gain’d the upper-hand of Wit,
The Dame by pity, or by Interest mov’d,
Or else by Lust, pretended now she lov’d;
After long-sufferings, her Consent I got. }
To make me happy, as I hop’d and thought, }
But oh, the wretched hour I ty’d the Gordian Knot. }

Thus thro’ mistake I rashly plung’d my Life
Into that Gulph of Miseries a Wife. 
With joyful Arms I thus embrac’d my Fare,
Believ’d too soon, was undeceiv’d too late;
So hair-brain’d Fools to Indian Climates rove,
With a vain hope their Fortunes to improve;
There spend their slender Cargoes, then become
Worse Slaves abroad than e’er they were at home
When a few Weeks were wasted I compar’d,
With all due moderation and regard,
My former freedom, with my new restraint,
Judging which State afforded most content. 
But found a single Life as calm and gay,
As the delightful Month of blooming May,
Not chill’d with Cold, or scorch’d with too much heat. }
Not plagu’d with flying Dust, nor drown’d with wet, }
But pleasing to the Eyes, and to the Nostrils sweet. }