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0 then I languish for another fair.
Would I did sin, and you with cause complain,
For when we strive to shun, yet strive in vain,
'Tis comfort sure to have deserv'd the pain.
But sure fond fancies now such heats engage,
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Your cred'lous peevish humour spoils your rage.
In frequent chidings I no force can see,
You frown too often to prevail with me;
The ass grows dull by stripes; the constant blow
Beats off his briskness, and he moves but slow.
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But now I'm lavish of my kind embrace,
And Moll, forsooth, supplies her lady's place!
Kind love, forbid that I should stoop so low;
What! unto mean, ignoble beauties bow ?
A chambermaid ! no faith, my love flies high;
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My quarry is a miss of quality.
Fye, who would clasp a slave ? who joy to feel
Her hands of iron and her sides of steel ?
'Twill damp an eager thought, 'twill check my mind,
To feel those knobs the lash hath left behind.
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