It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of…

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

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,

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

Ah! Whither, whither shall I fly, A poor unhappy Maid; To hopeless Love and Misery By my own Heart betray’d?

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

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.