Arehappy marriages for ever flown? 
          On full consideration I will own,
          That when each other’s follies couples bear;
          They then deserve the name of happy Pair.

          Enoughof this:—­no sooner had our wight
          The belle possessed, and passed the month’s delight;
          But he perceived what marriage must be here,
          With such a demon in our nether sphere. 
          For ever jars and discords rang around;
          Of follies, ev’ry class our couple found;
          Honesta often times such noise would make,
          Her screams and cries the neighbours kept awake,
          Who, running thither, by the wife were told:—­
          Some paltry tradesman’s daughter, coarse and bold,
          He should have had:—­not one of rank like me;
          To treat me thus, what villain he must be! 
          A wife so virtuous, could he e’er deserve! 
          My scruples are too great, or I should swerve;
          Indeed, without dispute, ’twould serve him right:—­
          We are not sure she nothing did in spite;
          These prudes can make us credit what they please: 
          Few ponder long when they can dupe with ease.

          Thiswife and husband, as our hist’ries say,
          Each moment squabbled through the passing day;
          Their disagreements often would arise
          About a petticoat, cards, tables, pies,
          Gowns, chairs, dice, summer-houses, in a word,
          Things most ridiculous and quite absurd.

          Wellmight this spouse regret his Hell profound,
          When he considered what he’d met on ground. 
          To make our demon’s wretchedness complete,
          Honesta’s relatives, from ev’ry street,
          He seemed to marry, since he daily fed
          The father, mother, sister (fit to wed,)
          And little brother, whom he sent to school;
          While Miss he portioned to a wealthy fool.

          His utter ruin, howsoe’er, arose
          From his attorney-steward that he chose. 
          What’s that? you ask—­a wily sneaking knave,
          Who, while his master spends, contrives to save;
          Till, in the end, grown rich, the lands he buys,
          Which his good lord is forced to sacrifice.

          If, in the course of time, the master take
          The place of steward, and his fortune make,
          ’Twould only to their proper rank restore,
          Those who become just what they were before.