MATRIMONII PENSITATIO: OR, No Jointure BUT The Hugg-Rural,  
LONDON, Printed for the Author, and are to be sold by Norman Nelson, at his Shop at Grays-Inn-Gate in Holborn. M.DC.LXXIX.   

MATRIMONII PENSITATIO.  
WHen first the World from the black Chaos rose,  
And Infant-beauty did this Frame compose;  
When Heaven and Man possessed one state of mind,  
And the pure Globe, like its Creator, shined;  
When free from sin, the Noble Mortal strove  
To Rival God in his returns of Love;  
When damning Pride, that Architect of Hell,  
Had not, as yet, made the sweet Soul rebel;  
When plunging Avarice no birth had found,  
Nor tore the precious entrails of the Ground:  
Then, then, the new Inhabitant was blest,  
Ease watched his heart, and peace secured his breast;  
No earthly thought tainted his holy mind;  
That World th'Almighty gave him, he declined;  
His Godlike Image made him upward move,  
He lived below, whilst his Soul dwelled above;  
Riches were things too weak to draw him thence,  
The darling Diamond wanted influence;  
Pearls but like common Gravel he contemned,  
And what we count a God, he thought no Friend:  
With heat of Love he flamed upon his Mate,  
And on the Green swath without Dowry sat,  
Warping about her neck he sought her heart,  
A fiery Lover, free from Fraud or Art;  
The object of his restless thoughts was bliss,  
And that he found in one Embrace, one Kiss,  
One Clasp, one Hug, one Agar-glance was more,  
Than Worlds of Pearl, or Globes of Golden Oar,  
One Touch, or vigorous Offer at her Lip,  
One Rapture on her Cheeks, or sanguine Sip,  
Raised more content in him than all the pains,  
The racks, the tortures of a Mistress gains:  
He placed his prized Affection next his God,  
And thought his Wife the second chiefest Good.  
The glorious Gift snatched in his loving Arms,  
Her Soul, her Beauty, and her Worth, her Charms;  
Her Breast an equal active fire did move,  
She balanced not his Empire with her Love:  
The splendid stamp of Empress she despised,  
The World a Cipher to the Man she prized:  
Her crowding wishes him alone pursued,  
No separate Greatness could her Love delude:  
Her Intellectuals pure known how to scan  
That great and independent Richness, Man:  
That little, but more weighty World, and more refined,  
More apt and suiting her Celestial mind.  
She understood, all that we good can name,  
Was nicely wrapted and folded up in him.  
O Fate, from whence proceeds the hidden cause,  
That we at Love, that glorious Passion, pause!  
Was it with Adam's Innocence betrayed,  
And by his Lapse a Malefactor made?  
Or have our own acquired Vices been  
So daring to determine it a sin?  
What should at once render us blessed and great  
We fly, and count the Landmark of our Fate:  
Like murmuring full-mouthed Israelites we stand,  
And run on Rocks to shun the Holy Land.  
From hence the baffled World has been inversed,  
Princes involved in War, and People cursed;  
Friends to their Confidents estranged, and Sons  
Foes to their Fathers, 'spite of Nature's dun's.  
Hence Nations are within themselves untied,  
Whilst bound in one, their hearts are unallied:  
Hence hot debates grow in Domestic Powers,  
The Man's unkind, the cheated Woman lours.  
Man, like the sordid Earth from which he sprung,  
Corrupts his Soul by a base heart of Dung,  
Quite started from the blessed form he bore,  
He values not the Woman, but her store;  
Extends his treacherous Pledge to golden Charms,  
And joins his hands to none but spangled Arms;  
He weds her Jewels, and her Amber Chains,  
But her rich Self that merits all, disdains:  
Her Face he praises, but he courts her Ears,  
Catching the glittering Pendants that she wears;  
Each Eye no longer he esteems a Star,  
Than flaming Rubies hang upon her hair,  
And judging Love, without her Gold, a curse;  
He scorns her Virtue to commend her Purse.  
The Woman too, no less debased than he,  
Gives not herself but for Gratuity;  
Soothes, like a Merchant, with inveigling Art,  
Demands her Jointure, and keeps back her heart;  
On Terms and Articles with Pride proceeds,  
And Seals her cold Affections to her Deeds;  
Stands off and Treats like an imperious State,  
And baulks her happiness to make her great;  
Proclaims her Fortune of a goodly size,  
And he that offers most obtains the Prize.  
Beyond the Turkish Salvageness this swells,  
Their Captives still are sold against their wills:  
But in reproach to us it justly braves,  
Whilst base Christians sell themselves for slaves.  
Both Sexes now deprave their noble Kind,  
But by their Avarice debauch their mind:  
Never consult poor Virtue for a Choice,  
But set up Vice to make a sensual Voice:  
Divine Content they count a finer Cheat,  
A Dish for Ornament, but no true Meat,  
A mere Romance, an idle Dream of those,  
Who, wanting Wealth, think to disguise their Woes;  
A Mountebank, that only boasts of Cures,  
But cannot work th'effect his talk assures.  
Thus does the Atheist against Spirits vow,  
And slight the Deity he won't pursue,  
Because his sense can't apprehend a God,  
Religion's sottish, and her Zealots mad.  
But look a Married and a happy Pair,  
Are now, like Revelations, strange and rare.  
And if we reason from the Ages gone,  
There scarcely was a happy Match but one.  
We mind not how the same specific kind,  
Curious in Gold, but to the Persons blind.  
The Man ne'er minds his Love, but Money still  
Is the base thirsted Object of his Will:  
Upon conditions of a promised Store,  
He'll hug a thing that crawls upon all four.  
Bring him a rich old Corpse, with grim Death's head,  
He'll swear she's young, and her Complexion Red;  
Or if you could bring one without a face,  
He'd praise her fiery Eyes, and comely Grace.  
The Woman too by such affections lead,  
Contemn the Living to embrace the Dead;  
And rather than not covet, basely bold,  
Would wed a Coffin if the Bars were Gold.  
Nature's apostate active Youth she scorns,  
Will long for Oxen, if you gilled their Horns;  
Judge him deformed, without Eyes or Nose,  
Nay, nothing to bespeak him Man but clothes;  
Yet she replies, He's rich; all passed down,  
There's nothing ugly but a poor Baboon.  
Thus might she clasp a loathsome Toad in Bed,  
Because he bears a Pearl within his Head:  
And gilded Pills, though bitter, may delight  
The liquorish Lust of wavering Appetite.  
But still the Wealth their griping Senses Feasts,  
At most theyare but concatenated Beasts;  
For as they balk all consonance of Soul,  
A mutual hate much each of them control,  
And this stands fixed, What with my Love don't suit,  
Appears deformed, and, in my sense, a Brute.  
To various Climes of Temper each are thrown,  
The Frigid coupled to the Torrid Zone:  
Like Curs of different nature in a Chain,  
They're linked in fear, and wear their Bands in pain.  
Perhaps a cold respect they both may show,  
As impious men to a kind Demon do,  
Who when some stinking Wealth he does unfold,  
Honour and dread him for their new found Gold:  
But view unrobe their bosom of disguise,  
Observe the aversation of their Eyes,  
With palpittations of Regret they twine,  
Like Oil and Water their false Lives combine;  
Whilst in each others Arms themselves they have,  
They wish their Beds converted to a Grave;  
And whilst their backward hearts, like Loadstones, meets▪  
They wish their Linen were their Winding-sheets.  
He, like a Bear of Love, her Body eclipse,  
Instead of pressing, bites her choleric Lips:  
She, like a wounded Otter, flings and rails,  
Fires with her Tongue, and combats with her Nails:  
Hell and confusion seize her place around;  
Horror his face, and thunder, beats the ground:  
They both launch out into a Sea of strife,  
A wealthy Husband, and a brawling Wife:  
The whole Armado of their Passions are  
On each side summoned to maintain a War:  
He arms revenge, she meets him with disdain,  
And to't they rush like Winds upon the Main:  
She to her shrill loud clamours takes recourse,  
Stamps and invokes the Clergy for Divorce,  
Detects the Light by which his face she saw,  
Curses her Bawds, and execrates the Law,  
Directs to Heaven her twined Hands, with Prayers,  
Cries out with Anguish, and a gulf of Tears,  
That Justice would her matchless grief behold,  
Pity a hated Husband, and a Scold;  
That Death would snatch him from the loathsome Bed,  
And Heaven restore the will which she betrayed.  
He, on the other side, with rage grows blind,  
Curses the Sex, and damns all Womankind,  
Accuses Heaven that such a Monster made,  
A Fury in deceitful Masquerade,  
A cunning Goblin in an Angel's plight,  
A Devil with the coverture of Light;  
Blasphemes, and by his passion cast too far,  
Destroys himself by persecuting her;  
Abjures his Faith sworn to a Legal Bed,  
Hates her, and lays another by her side,  
Profusely ravishes her right, each Kiss,  
And wracks her with the sight of wrongful Bliss.  
She grows provoked upon this dismal change,  
And turns dishonest to retort revenge;  
The breach of Chastity she makes her play,  
Rates him all night, and Cuckolds him all day.  
This must be then the issue, where our Love  
Does not together with our Nuptials move.  
Possessions can't for sickle Joy provide,  
No, Love, the end of Living, is destroyed.  
Alas, weare all mistaken in the kind,  
A happy Man is measured by his mind;  
Suppose him born to all the Pomp of Life,  
Admit he's matched to Beauty in a Wife;  
These are but Pageants which a while may please,  
They may employ him, but procure no ease:  
That Grandeur is no compound of our Bliss,  
The rugged bosoms of the Great confess:  
The gilded Monarch sable stands within,  
His Glory to his Trouble's but a shrine,  
His Cares, his Jealousies, Nocturnal Frights,  
Embitter all his Joys and false Delights;  
His toiling Head with grief a Crown must bear,  
Whilst he still starts and grasps to hold it there.  
And thus all Princes to this Hell we trace,  
They Reign without, and are but Kings by place.  
But least ambitious Maids in scorn relate,  
This is the utmost Tyranny of Fate,  
That such seditious disagreeing Pairs  
Are scarcely known in Centuries of Years;  
We'll grant, which yet no less misfortune breeds,  
The Woman loves the Golden Man she Weds:  
We'll think, she brings with her Estate a Mind  
Pure as the Sterling from its Dross refined;  
Yet this is so unlikely to succeed,  
It murders what it first designed to feed:  
He straight concludes her Passion a pretence,  
Condemns her Soul, and lays the Crime on Sense;  
Argues, she only chose to be his Bride,  
To serve and gratify her costly Pride.  
But still we'll give this to prick larger Law,  
We'll say, an equal passion both does draw:  
We will suppose them both inclined to Love,  
We'll call her Venus, and we'll style him jove:  
Yet through the Tides of business in his head,  
He must at length neglect and slight her Bed.  
His peeping Passion, like a feeble Sun,  
Mingled with showers of Rain, will soon be gone:  
And if perhaps there's left some poor remains,  
Like Northern Gold, 'tis in penurious Veins,  
Diffused and scattered o'er the barren Land,  
Amidst vast heaps of Lead and yellow Sand.  
This must be then a sad reward of Love,  
When he thus senseless of her choice does prove.  
Her amorous courage ne'er can long be bold,  
That finds herself outrivalled by her Gold.  
Both their affections to the Deep are sent,  
He sinks through weight, and she through discontent:  
Their Riches then show their defect of power,  
That can't create what want does oft procure.  
In thoughts of Wealth he can't entomb his smart,  
When sullen Love preys on his stubborn heart.  
If crowded Chests and glutted Coffers can  
Restore contentment to th'ambitious Man;  
Possessed of those, if he from pain is free,  
A Trouble may be called a quiet Sea;  
Because there's Pearl and Amber on the Shores,  
And thus it's strangely silent where it roars.  
But 'twere, methinks, an easy task to prove,  
There's no such Passion as a sumptuous Love.  
True Fire the hearts o'th' Wealthy never breed,  
They may through care, but not affection, bleed:  
Their Tenors, Lands, their Rents and Quarter-days,  
In their distracted heads strong Factions raise:  
And whensoe'er poor simp'ring Love peeps in,  
He's by that boisterous Crowd beat out again.  
Craessus is still perplexed to guard his Store,  
Fears 'twill be less, labours to make it more;  
And what he hoards by the excess of gain,  
Wastes his lean joy, and feeds his pampered Pain.  
When Love with blind caresses he would please,  
He forms Indentures, draws a cautious Lease;  
With Will-proviso's all his Speeches run,  
His Breasts a Tumult like a Market-Town:  
And when in Bed he should embrace his Spouse,  
Like a dull Ox lies still amidst the Cows;  
Chews all the night upon the next fair day,  
How much this Horse, how much that Load of Hay;  
No thought but that of Cattle yokes his heart,  
His Soul's the Driver, and himself the Cart:  
Nothing but buzz and noise his Cranium seize,  
His Head's the Hive, his busy Thoughts the Bees.  
In vain the Wife does for the Husband moan,  
Whilst she's the Burden, and her Love the Drone.  
Love, like a cautious fearful Bird, ne'er builds,  
But where the place silence and calmness yields:  
He slily flies to Copses, where he finds  
The snugging Wood secure from blasts and winds,  
Shuns the huge bowels of a more stately form,  
And laughs at Trees made drunk at every storm.  
The pleasant Nightingale can ne'er be won  
To quit a temperate Shade to scorch i'th' Sun;  
In some low Barn he sings his charming Note,  
And on the Thatch tunes his sweet warbling Throat.  
We'll take an unrich Couple for our Scenes,  
Who love, and know not what Ambition means;  
Who such an even Competence possess,  
As may support, but not disturb their Bliss:  
See how unmoved they at all Changes stand,  
Shipwrecks on Sea, and Earthquakes on the Land;  
The fraud of Courts, the Knavish toil of Gowns,  
A Monarch's Favours, or his pointed Frowns,  
Concern them not, they but themselves abuse,  
In valuing that they ne'er intent to use:  
Each to the other prove a solid Bliss,  
Rich in themselves, no want of happiness:  
Like Egypt, in whose Land all plenty grows;  
Each other's bosom is their best repose:  
When hissing Storms, and pitchy Tempests rise,  
Chin clings to Cheek, and swimming Eyes to Eyes;  
When snarling Winds and knotty Thunder roar,  
They serve to make them press and love the more.  
Immortal being thus themselves cajol,  
Spurn stinking Sense, and feed upon the Soul.  
Here let us leave them bathing in pure Joy,  
Whom envious Man nor Fate can ne'er destroy.  
Here let them live to shame both Wealth and Power,  
As Greatness can't love less, they can't love more.  
To the Divinest state of things they drive,  
Like Pilgrim-Angels on this Earth they live.  
Kind Nature gave them, Fortune bore no part,  
Love joined their Souls, and Heaven sealed each Heart.  
FINIS.