She finds what pity ’tis she e’er had known,
Since for no Crime, nor Pleasure of her own,
Reveals it to him, knowing not at first,
What might the Cause be—­tho’ she fear’d the worst. 
He strives to pacifie her twenty ways
Blushes—­or wou’d do if he’d any Grace. 
Tells Her the truth in Penetential strain,
And vows he’ll never do the like again,
She weeps, forgives him all—­but must endure,
The manner, and the Charges of a Cure;
Where One in twenty scarce so perfect be,
But that they leave it to Posterity.

The Sixth Comfort of a Town Life.

Or where they ’scape the plagues of Pox and Pills,
The Sin is liable to fifty Ills,
Of equal Danger, tho’ a diff’rent Cure,
As he that dreading Claps wou’d Sin secure;
For soon the pliant Wretch he has beguil’d
Hath to his Charge and wonder prove with Child: 
At which, ’tmay properly be said a Man,
Leaps from the Fire to the Frying-pan,
This for his Reputation sake must be reveal’d
When Claps are only as a Jest reveal’d
She’s now Remov’d—­Deliver’d—­and the Nurse;
Comes thick and threefold to Exhaust his Purse;
A blessed Life that woful Mortal bears,
With Nurse and Child, and Mother in his Ears. 
Arm’d with a Thousand things that must be had,
Till they have drein’d him poor and made him mad: 
What better (had he been convin’d before,)
He had Transgress’d with some Obedient Whore.

The Seventh Pleasure of a Town Life.

        Another that he may his Joys secure,
        Turns Limbetham and keep some Gaudy whore,
        Thinks her his own—­when Satan knows her his mind,
        Is like her Body not to be confin’d,
        As constant as the Moon, she plays her part,
        And like a Viper preys upon his Heart: 
        Draws him so poor, till like her Slaves,
        Which she bestows on some smart Fop she loves,
        For this is with ’em a perpetual Rule,
        They never Love the Person that they fool,
        This he perceives not till it is too late,
        Till Ruined in his Person and Estate. 
        And then good Night, when all his money’s gone,
        Miss leaves him too, to ply about the Town.

The Eighth Pleasure of a Town Life.

But above all—­if’t be within thy Power,
Oh Fate! to Curse me any mortal more,
Let him be him that does so wretched prove,
To be with some Intriging Jilt in Love: 
Nay, tho’ in part to mollifie his pain,
We’ll say the Harlot chance to Love again? 
I mean such Love as Lewdness can impart,
Bred in the Blood—­but never in the Heart. 
With softning presents he would Cure her mind,
To him, and only to him, to be Kind. 
But were the Indies all within his Pow’r
To give, he would but lavish all his Store,
He might confine the Sea, as soon as her. 
What then (since Love no Rival will submit)
Must he indure that with this plague do’s meet: 
When every Thought is Death and Discontent
To know, what he wants power to prevent,
The case can only this conclusion have,
He’s twice more wretched than a Galley-slave.