Ah! Whither, whither shall I fly

In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers any body else to rail at me.

Pious Selinda goes to Pray’rs, If I but ask the Favour; And yet the tender Fool’s in Tears, When she believes I’ll leave her.Wou’d I were free from Restraint, Or else had Hopes to win her; Wou’d she cou’d make of me a Saint,

Defer not till tomorrow to be wise, Tomorrow's sun to thee may never rise.

Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.

Invention flags, his brain goes muddy, And black despair succeeds brown study.

Hannibal was a very pretty fellow in those days.