« 이전계속 »
THE JOYS OF MARRIAGE.
How uneasy is his life Who is troubled with a wife! Be she ne'er so fair or comely, Be she ne'er so foul or homely, Be she ne'er so young and toward, Be she ne'er so old and froward, Be she kind with arms enfolding, Be she cross and always scolding, Be she blithe or melancholy, Have she wit or have she folly, Be she wary, be she squand'ring, Be she staid, or be she wand'ring, Be she constant, be she fickle, Be she fire, or be she ickle, Be she pious or ungodly, Be she chaste or what sounds oddly : Lastly, be she good or evil, Be she saint, or be she devil; Yet uneasy is his life, Who is marry'd to a wife.
If fair, she's subject to temptation, If foul, herself's solicitation, VOL. V.
If young and sweet, she is too tender,
These are all extremes, I know,
But, alas ! there's no such woman,
Yet with me 'tis out of season
Why then all the great pains taking ? Why the sighing? why the waking? Why the riding? why the running? Why the artifice and cunning? Why the whining? why the crying? Why pretending to be dying? Why all this clutter to get wives, To make us weary of our lives?
A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE.
The lives of frail men are compar'd by the sages,
steeple, And though I was bred ’mongst the wonders o'th'
Peak, Would have thrown away money, and ventur'd my
neck To have seen a great hill, a rock, or a cave, And thought there was nothing so pleasant and
brave; But at forty years old you may (if you please) Think me wiser than run such errands as these; Or, had the same humour still ran in my toes, A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose : But to tell you the truth on't, indeed it was neither Improvement nor pleasure for which I went thither ; I know then you'll presently ask me, for what? Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman trot; And therefore I think I'm not much to be blam'd If I went to the place whereof Nick was asham’d.
Oh Coriate! thou traveller fam'd as Ulysses, In such a stupendious labour as this is,
Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy feet,
'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year, The days were now long, and the sky was now
clear, And May, that fair lady of splendid renown, Had dress'd herself fine, in her flowr'd tabby gown, When about some two hours and an half after noon, When it grew something late, though I thought it
With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart,
By pacing and trotting, betimes in the even, E'er the Sun had forsaken one half of the Heaven, We all at fair Congerton took up our inn, Where the sign of a king kept a king and his queen: But who do you think came to welcome me there? No worse a man, marry, than good master mayor, With his staff of command, yet the man was not
lame, But he needed it more when he went, than he came ;