That very night he longs to lie alone.
The fool, whofe wife elopes fome thrice a quarter,
For matrimonial folace dies a martyr.
Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch,
Transform themselves fo ftrangely as the rich?
Well, but the poor-The poor have the fame itch;
They change their weekly barber, weekly news,
Prefer a new japanner to their shoes,
Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run
(They know not whither) in a chaise and one;
They hire their sculler, and when once aboard,
Grow fick, and damn the climate-like a lord.
You laugh, half beau, half sloven if I stand,
My wig all powder, and all snuff my band;
You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary,
White gloves, and linen worthy lady Mary!
But when no prelate's lawn with hair-shirt lin’d,
Is half fo incoherent as my mind,
When (each opinion with the next at ftrife,
One ebb and flow of follies all my life)
I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Turn round to fquare, and fquare again to round;
You never change one muscle of your face >
You think this madness but a common cafe,
Nor once to Chanc'ry; nor to Hale apply;
Yet hang your lip, to see a scam awry!
Careiefs how illI with myfeif agree,
Kind to my drefs, my figure, not to me.
Is this my guide, philofopher, and friend?
This he, who loves me, and who ought to mend ;
Who ought to make me (what he can, or none,)