But Madam, can you talk of Settlement,
Whom neither God, nor Man could e'er content?
Of Wealth you've had, of Husbands too good Store;
Thousands oth' one, and of the other four;
And yet you daily pray, and pine for more.
Glutted with Humane kind, again you crave,
Nor can you settled be, 'till lodg'd in Grave.
Your gloting Eyes more wantonness reflect,
Than any high-fed Concubine can act:
Your wrigling Soul by working frets its way,
Thro' Flesh and Blood, and doe's it self betray.
Your restless Thoughts from Man to Man still rowl;
A B essed Symptome of a Settled Soul.
When dreadful Fourscore Years are past and gone,
When breath grows short, and the last hour draws on;
'Tis wondrous pretty in Love's Toils t' Engage,
And to be Marri'd in a good Old Age:
Wedlock which Youth Adorns, in you's a Sin:
Yet you will on; as if you did design,
By your Stale, wither'd Matrimonial Face,
To bring the Dear Lov'd Thing into Disgrace.
For shame, Old Chronicle, no longer rove
In the wild Mystick Maze of Lawless Love:
Hence, and that Venerable Limber lay
In some dark Vault unknown to Light and Day:
There sigh the short Remains of Life away.
There Mourn, confess, tell o're the num'rous Scroll,
Ransack each secret Corner of your Soul.