For then their late attracts decline, 695
And turn as eager as prick’d wine;
And all their catterwauling tricks,
In earnest to as jealous piques;
Which the ancients wisely signify’d,
By th’ yellow mantos of the bride:  700
For jealousy is but a kind
Of clap and grincam of the mind,
The natural effects of love,
As other flames and aches prove;
But all the mischief is, the doubt 705
On whose account they first broke out. 
For though Chineses go to bed,
And lie in, in their ladies stead,
And for the pains they took before,
Are nurs’d and pamper’d to do more 710
Our green men do it worse, when th’ hap
To fail in labour of a clap
Both lay the child to one another: 
But who’s the father, who the mother,
’Tis hard to say in multitudes, 715
Or who imported the French goods. 
But health and sickness b’ing all one,
Which both engag’d before to own,
And are not with their bodies bound
To worship, only when they’re sound, 720
Both give and take their equal shares
Of all they suffer by false wares: 
A fate no lover can divert
With all his caution, wit, and art. 
For ’tis in vain to think to guess 725
At women by appearances,
That paint and patch their imperfections
Of intellectual complexions,
And daub their tempers o’er with washes
As artificial as their faces; 730
Wear under vizard-masks their talents
And mother-wits before their gallants,
Until they’re hamper’d in the noose,
Too fast to dream of breaking loose;
When all the flaws they strove to hide 735
Are made unready with the bride,
That with her wedding-clothes undresses
Her complaisance and gentilesses,
Tries all her arts to take upon her
The government from th’ easy owner; 740
Until the wretch is glad to wave
His lawful right, and turn her slave;
Find all his having, and his holding,
Reduc’d t’ eternal noise and scolding;
The conjugal petard, that tears 745
Down all portcullises of ears,
And make the volley of one tongue
For all their leathern shields too strong
When only arm’d with noise and nails,
The female silk-worms ride the males, 750
Transform ’em into rams and goats,
Like Sirens, with their charming notes;
Sweet as a screech-owl’s serenade,
Or those enchanting murmurs made
By th’ husband

mandrake and the wife, 755
Both bury’d (like themselves) alive.