For Hell and the foul fiend that rulesGod’s everlasting fiery jails(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools),With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door,Are senseless stories, idle tales,Dreams, whimseys, and no more.
God bless our good and gracious King,Whose promise none relies on;Who never said a foolish thing,Nor ever did a wise one.
Before I got married I had six theories about raising children; now, I have six children and no theories.
Now piercèd is her virgin zone;She feels the foe within it.She hears a broken amorous groan,The panting lover’s fainting moan,Just in the happy minute.
Then, if to make your ruin more,You’ll peevishly be coy,Die with the scandal of a whoreAnd never know the joy.
Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,May drink and love still reign,With wine I wash away my cares,And then to cunt again.
A kind of losing loadum is their game,Where the worst writer has the greatest fame.
How blest was the created stateOf man and woman, ere they fell,Compared to our unhappy fate:We need not fear another hell.
I hate the thing is called enjoyment: Besides it is a dull employment,It cuts off all that’s life and fireFrom that which may be termed desire;Just like the bee whose sting is goneConverts the owner to a drone.
Before I got married I had six theories about bringing up children now I have six children and no theories.