And thus attack’d him with reproof;
Mortal, thou art betray’d to us
B’ our friend, thy Evil Genius,
Who, for thy horrid perjuries, 1165
Thy breach of faith, and turning lies,
The Brethren’s privilege (against
The wicked) on themselves, the Saints,
Has here thy wretched carcase sent
For just revenge and punishment; 1170
Which thou hast now no way to lessen,
But by an open, free confession;
For if we catch thee failing once,
’Twill fall the heavier on thy bones.

What made thee venture to betray, 1175
And filch the lady’s heart away? 
To Spirit her to matrimony? —­
That which contracts all matches —­ money. 
It was th’ inchantment oft her riches
That made m’ apply t’ your croney witches, 1180
That, in return, wou’d pay th’ expence,
The wear and tear of conscience;
Which I cou’d have patch’d up, and turn’d,
For the hundredth part of what I earn’d.

Didst thou not love her then?  Speak true. 1185
No more (quoth he) than I love you. —­
How would’st th’ have us’d her, and her money? —­
First turn’d her up to alimony;
And laid her dowry out in law,
To null her jointure with a flaw, 1190
Which I before-hand had agreed
T’ have put, on purpose in the deed;
And bar her widow’s making over
T’ a friend in trust, or private lover.

What made thee pick and chuse her out, 1195
T’ employ their sorceries about? —­
That which makes gamesters play with those
Who have least wit, and most to lose.

But didst thou scourge thy vessel thus,
As thou hast damn’d thyself to us? 1200

I see you take me for an ass: 
’Tis true, I thought the trick wou’d pass
Upon a woman well enough,
As ’t has been often found by proof,
Whose humours are not to be won, 1205
But when they are impos’d upon. 
For love approves of all they do
That stand for candidates, and woo.

Why didst thou forge those shameful lies
Of bears and witches in disguise? 1210

That is no more than authors give
The rabble credit to believe: 
A trick of following their leaders,
To entertain their gentle readers;
And we have now no other way 1215
Of passing all we do or say
Which, when ’tis natural and true,
Will be believ’d b’ a very few,
Beside the danger of offence,
The fatal enemy of sense. 1220

Why did thou chuse that cursed sin,
Hypocrisy, to set up in?