breast,
He grew composed, and let his anger rest;
Till Counter once (when wine so long went round,
That friendship and discretion both were drown’d)
Began, in teasing and triumphant mood,
His evening banter:  —­“Of all earthly good,
The best,” he said, “was an obedient spouse,
Such as my friend’s—­that every one allows: 
What if she wishes his designs to know? 
It is because she would her praise bestow;
What if she wills that he remain at home? 
She knows that mischief may from travel come. 
I, who am free to venture where I please,
Have no such kind preventing checks as these;
But mine is double duty, first to guide
Myself aright, then rule a house beside;
While this our friend, more happy than the free,
Resigns all power, and laughs at liberty.” 
   “By heaven!” said Clubb, “excuse me if I swear,
I’ll bet a hundred guineas, if he dare,
That uncontroll’d I will such freedoms take
That he will fear to equal—­there’s my stake.” 
   “A match!” said Counter, much by wine inflamed;
“But we are friends—­let smaller stake be named: 
Wine for our future meeting, that will I
Take and no more—­what peril shall we try?”
“Let’s to Newmarket,” Clubb replied; “or choose
Yourself the place, and what you like to lose: 
And he who first returns, or fears to go,
Forfeits his cash.”—­Said Counter, “Be it so.” 
   The friends around them saw with much delight
The social war, and hail’d the pleasant night;
Nor would they further hear the cause discuss’d,
Afraid the recreant heart of Clubb to trust. 
Now sober thoughts return’d as each withdrew,
And of the subject took a serious view: 
“’Twas wrong,” thought Counter, “and will grieve my love;”
“’Twas wrong,” thought Clubb, “my wife will not approve: 
But friends were present; I must try the thing,
Or with my folly half the town will ring.” 
   He sought his lady—­“Madam, I’m to blame,
But was reproach’d, and could not bear the shame;
Here in my folly—­for ’tis best to say
The very truth—­I’ve sworn to have my way;
To that Newmarket—­(though I hate the place,
And have no taste or talents for a race,
Yet so it is—­well, now prepare to chide) —
I laid a wager that I dared to ride: 
And I must go:  by heaven, if you resist
I shall be scorn’d, and ridiculed, and hiss’d;
Let me with grace before my friends appear,
You know the truth, and must not be severe: 
He too must go, but that he will of course: 
Do you consent?—­I never think of force.” 
   “You never need,” the worthy Dame replied;
“The husband’s honour is the woman’s pride: 
If I in trifles be the wilful wife,
Still for your credit I would lose my life. 
Go! and when fix’d the day of your return,
Stay longer yet, and let the blockheads learn
That though a wife may sometimes wish to rule,
She would not make th’ indulgent man a fool;