Quinzica, then perceiving that his pow’rs
          Fell short of what a bird like his devours,
          T’excuse himself and satisfy his dear,
          Pretended that, no day within the year,
          To Hymen, as a saint, was e’er assigned,
          In calendar, or book of any kind,
          When full attention to the god was paid:—­
          To aged sires a nice convenient aid;
          But this the sex by no means fancy right;
          Few days to pleasure could his heart invite
          At times, the week entire he’d have a fast;
          At others, say the day ’mong saints was classed,
          Though no one ever heard its holy name;—­
          fast ev’ry Friday—­Saturday the same,
          Since Sunday followed, consecrated day;
          Then Monday came:—­still he’d abstain from play;
          Each morning find excuse, but solemn feasts
          Were days most sacred held by all the priests;
          On abstinence, then, Richard lectures read,
          And long before the time, was always led
          By sense of right, from dainties to refrain: 
          A period afterward would also gain;
          The like observed before and after Lent;
          And ev’ry feast had got the same extent;
          These times were gracious for our aged man;
          And never pass them was his constant plan.

          Ofpatron saints he always had a list;
          Th’ evangelists, apostles, none he miss’d;
          And that his scruples might have constant food;
          Some days malign, he said, were understood;
          Then foggy weather;—­dog-days’ fervent heat: 
          To seek excuses he was most complete,
          And ne’er asham’d but manag’d things so well,
          Four times a year, by special grace, they tell,
          Our sage regal’d his youthful blooming wife,
          A little with the sweets of marriage life.

          Withthis exception he was truly kind,
          Fine dresses, jewels, all to please her mind;
          But these are bawbles which alone controul
          Those belles, like dolls, mere bodies void of soul. 
          Bartholomea was of diff’rent clay;
          Her only pleasure (as our hist’ries say),
          To go in summer to the neighb’ring coast,
          Where her good spouse a charming house could boast,
          In which they took their lodging once a week;
          At times they pleasure on the waves would seek,
          As fishing with the lady would agree,
          And she was wond’rous partial to the sea,
          Though far to sail they always would refuse. 
          One day it happened better to amuse,
          Our couple diff’rent fishing vessels took,
          And skimm’d the wave to try who most could hook,
          Of fish and pleasure; and they laid a bet,
          The greatest number which of them should get. 
          On board they had a man or two at most. 
          And each the best adventure hop’d to boast.