A VINDICATION OF A Marriage Life: In Answer to the Broadside against MARRIAGE.  

THou dull insipid Wretch, who couldst not choose,  
An apt Theme for thy Profaner Muse:  
Thy limping Pegasus though shod with Rhyme  
Flounder and halts even in the second Line.  
As if like Balaam's Ass, he durst not go  
His usual Pace against A Godly Foe.  
Thou Mercinariest Rhymer of the Town,  
Thou Pimp to all Debauches for a Crown,  
Who for a Strumpet's Fee dost thus dispense.  
With breach of Laws of God and Conscience.  
And rather than thy Luxury control  
Wilt fell the noble Charter of thy Soul.  
Nay had the other poor half Crown been given,  
I dare to swear thou'dst sold thy claim to Heaven!  
From the dull Poem we collect no more  
But only that thou art, A Son of a Whore  
The Harlot's Champion and her part dost take  
Because thou lov'st her for thy Mother's sake.  
And who can think him less who thus derides  
The holy Privileges of happy Brides.  
Who cause himself's a Bastard won't allow  
The blessed effects of a conjugal Vow.  
So Thiefs and Rogues who boast their own esteem  
Would have she honest, though as bad as them.  
And with loud Oaths applaud that very crime,  
For which perhaps they're hanged another time,  
Which just deserved Fate since 'tis his due;  
I wish may reach our Poetaster too:  
Who by a long accustomed trick of thieving  
Is the known Robber both of th' Dead and Living,  
When hired Verse hath worn his fancy bare,  
His Brain as Empty as his Pockets are.  
Made desperate through want, like some mad Lad,  
That's driven by necessity to Pad:  
He rifles all the Poets in the Town  
And what he rudely seizes, makes his own.  
No Play or Character, ere yet was Writ,  
But suffers by this Highway man of Wit,  
Who when reso ere he meets it bids it stand  
And quietly resign at his Command.  
No wonder then if such as he degrade  
The spotless pleasures of a Marriage Bed;  
Whose In famous Progenitors ne'er knew  
What honours to that happy ' state is due;  
But still ran on in an Incestuous Line,  
And knew their Parentage no more than Swine,  
Thus I dare swear, Incorrigible Sot,  
Thou was't not got by any holy Plot;  
But as a hated Judgement didst proceed  
To punish those who did so ill a Deed.  
By thy own Parents Reckoned a mishap  
Whose Birth they dreaded worse than A Clap.  
Thy Mother cursed thee in her very womb.  
And wished her belly might have been thy Tomb:  
So passionately mad she was to see,  
That thou shouldst spoil her 6 months' Lechery:  
What shall I say thou thing of low Estate!  
The longest Cur●●s too short to reach thy Fate,  
To make comparison 'twixt Hell and thee,  
Were but to compliment thy misery,  
And by so mild a simile to press,  
Too modest thoughts on thy unhappiness.  
Enjoy thyself, thy Royets and thy Wenches,  
Thy Pocky Pills, thy Diet, Drink and Drenches;  
Commend thy Plasters, Scringes, and Fluxes,  
Apd swear there's no such pleasure as the Fox is;  
Thy snuffling Eloquence shall ne'er dissuade  
Me from the Pleasures of my Nuptial Bed.  
Marriage though Noble Centre of the Mind,  
Wherein an Heaven we only quiet find:  
The even Calm of fifty pleasant Years,  
Wherein no storms but those of love appears,  
And repetitions of our chaste delights,  
Which we like Gods enjoy without affrights,  
We run no hazards, but go to't with ease,  
Squenching our Souls, and leaving when we please.;  
Cloyed with the pleasures of the active Night,  
Our minds next day repeat the blessed delight;  
Flushed with sweet kisses, our desires move  
So high we drown our Duty in our Love.  
Marriage, the holy order which confines,  
Our stragliag faculties to good designs,  
That wise retreat which bids us take a View,  
Both of ourselves, and of our fortunes too,  
Which busy Youth could ne'er abide to do  
A Wife! that sweet divider of our cares!  
Doubles our joy and half our sorrow shares:  
If angry Destiny our Fortune shakes,  
She smiles, and heals those wounds which Fortune make:  
sugared within humble Language, she  
Calmly diverts our Growing misery.   

In short a Virtuous Wife's a good estate,  
And he who has her is secured by Fate,  
To Live in Credit, and be Fortunate.    

Printed for J. L. T. Ashfield. 1675