Releast ’em from the worst of prisons
And what return that favour met
You cannot (though you wou’d) forget; 20
When, being free, you strove t’ evade
The oaths you had in prison made;
Forswore yourself; and first deny’d it,
But after own’d and justify’d it
And when y’ had falsely broke one vow, 25
Absolv’d yourself by breaking two. 
For while you sneakingly submit,
And beg for pardon at our feet,
Discourag’d by your guilty fears,
To hope for quarter for your ears, 30
And doubting ’twas in vain to sue,
You claim us boldly as your due;
Declare that treachery and force,
To deal with us, is th’ only course;
We have no title nor pretence 35
To body, soul, or conscience;
But ought to fall to that man’s share
That claims us for his proper ware. 
These are the motives which, t’ induce
Or fright us into love, you use. 40
A pretty new way of gallanting,
Between soliciting and ranting;
Like sturdy beggars, that intreat
For charity at once, and threat. 
But since you undertake to prove 45
Your own propriety in love,
As if we were but lawful prize
In war between two enemies,
Or forfeitures, which ev’ry lover,
That wou’d but sue for, might recover, 50
It is not hard to understand
The myst’ry of this bold demand,
That cannot at our persons aim,
But something capable of claim.

’Tis not those paultry counterfeit 55
French stones, which in our eyes you set,
But our right diamonds, that inspire
And set your am’rous hearts on fire. 
Nor can those false St. Martin’s beads,
Which on our lips you lay for reds, 60
And make us wear, like Indian dames,
Add fuel to your scorching flames;
But those true rubies of the rock,
Which in our cabinets we lock. 
’Tis not those orient pearls our teeth, 65
That you are so transported with;
But those we wear about our necks,
Produce those amorous effects. 
Nor is’t those threads of gold, our hair,
The periwigs you make us wear, 70
But those bright guineas in our chests,
That light the wild fire in your breasts. 
These love-tricks I’ve been vers’d in so,
That all their sly intrigues I know,
And can unriddle, by their tones, 75
Their mystick cabals and jargones;
Can tell what passions, by their sounds,
Pine for the beauties of my grounds;
What raptures fond and amorous
O’ th’ charms and graces of my house; 80
What extasy and scorching flame,
Burns for my money in my name;
What from th’ unnatural desire
To beasts and cattle takes its fire;
What tender sigh, and trickling tear, 85
Longs for a thousand pounds a year;
And languishing transports are fond
Of statute, mortgage, bill, and bond.