The Third Comfort.

  And first, the greatest lasting’st Plague of Life,

Husband; the Constant Jaylor of a wife,
A proud insulting dominering thing,
Abroad a subject, but at Home a King,
There he in State does Arbitrary Reign,
And lordlike pow’r do’s o’er his wife maintain. 
For when she puts the Marriage Garments on, }
The pleasures Ended e’er ’tis well begun:  }
But Plagues increase and hardly e’re have done, }
The joy he Courted he dispises now,
And do’s a perfect Married Nausiance grow,

The Fourth Comfort.

  It’s Jealousie that maggot of the pate,

Possess the Sot, how violent’s his hate,
What curst suspitions haunt his tortur’d Mind,
And make him look for what he would not find,
Nothing but Females must i’th House appear,
And not a Dog or Cat, that’s Male be there,
Nay lest the unhappy wife shou’d have her longings,
He cuts out all the Men i’th Tapstry Hangings,
And if a harmless Letter’s to her sent,
He’ll make it speak worse sense than e’er it meant.

The Fifth Comfort.

  In a Curst Chamber, Cloyster’d up for Life,

Loves Female Innocence miscall’d a wife,
Deny’d those Pleasures are to Virtue granted,
Yearly the Devil of a Husband haunted,
for a Release she cannot Hope nor Pray,
Till milder Death takes him, or her away,
If her she’s happy, and if him she’s bless’d,
Till to her arms she takes a second Guest.

The Sixth Comfort.

  If Beauty, Wit, or Com[*?]aisance would do,

There’s women that can all these wonders show,
Beauty that might new fire to Hermit lend,
And wit which serves that Beauty to defend,
who courted, cou’d do wonders with those Charms,
Till Parson conjur’d her to Husbands Arms,
And tho’ the same perfections still remain
Yet nothing now can the dull Creature gain,
No looks can win him, nor no Smiles invite,
He now does her, and her Endearments slight,
And leaves those Graces which he shou’d adore,
To dote upon some Ugly suburb whore,
whilst poor neglected Spouse remains at home,
with discontent and Sorrow overcome,
No prayers, nor tears, nor all the Virtuous arts.
which women use to tame Rebellous Hearts. 
Can the Incorrigible H[*?] move,
And make him own his once so promis’d love,

The Seventh Comfort

  Oh she a happy, too too happy Bride,

That has a Husband snoring by her side,
Belching out Fumes of undigested wine,
And lies all Night like a good natur’d Swine,
whose Snoring serves as Musick to her Ears,
And keeps true Confort with her silent Tears,
That can himself no more than Chaos move,
And still neglects the great affair of love,
She may indeed assume the name of wife,
But others know she’s but a Nurse for life.