You have provided well, quoth she,
(I thank you) for yourself and me,
And shown your presbyterian wits
Jump punctual with the Jesuits; 500
A most compendious way, and civil,
At once to cheat the world, the Devil,
And Heaven and Hell, yourselves, and those
On whom you vainly think t’ impose. 
Why then (quoth he) may Hell surprize —­ 505
That trick (said she) will not pass twice: 
I’ve learn’d how far I’m to believe
Your pinning oaths upon your sleeve. 
But there’s a better way of clearing
What you would prove than downright swearing:  510
For if you have perform’d the feat,
The blows are visible as yet,
Enough to serve for satisfaction
Of nicest scruples in the action: 
And if you can produce those knobs, 515
Although they’re but the witch’s drubs,
I’ll pass them all upon account,
As if your natural self had done’t
Provided that they pass th’ opinion
Of able juries of old women 520
Who, us’d to judge all matter of facts
For bellies, may do so for backs,

Madam, (quoth he,) your love’s a million;
To do is less than to be willing,
As I am, were it in my power, 525
T’ obey, what you command, and more: 
But for performing what you bid,
I thank you as much as if I did. 
You know I ought to have a care
To keep my wounds from taking air:  530
For wounds in those that are all heart,
Are dangerous in any part.

I find (quoth she) my goods and chattels
Are like to prove but mere drawn battels;
For still the longer we contend, 535
We are but farther off the end. 
But granting now we should agree,
What is it you expect from me? 
Your plighted faith (quoth he) and word
You past in heaven on record, 540
Where all contracts, to have and t’ hold,
Are everlastingly enroll’d: 
And if ’tis counted treason here
To raze records, ’tis much more there. 
Quoth she, There are no bargains driv’n, 545
Or marriages clapp’d up, in Heav’n,
And that’s the reason, as some guess,
There is no heav’n in marriages;
Two things that naturally press
Too narrowly to be at ease. 550
Their bus’ness there is only love,
Which marriage is not like t’ improve: 
Love, that’s too generous to abide
To be against its nature ty’d;
Or where ’tis of itself inclin’d, 555
It breaks loose when it is confin’d;
And like the soul, it’s harbourer. 
Debarr’d the freedom of the air,
Disdains against its will to stay,
But struggles out, and flies away; 560
And therefore never can comply