Which when she'd used in vain she blush'd and cry'd,
And own'd her fault she found she could not hide.

This I forgave, she promis'd to reclaim,
Vow'd future truth if I'd conceal the shame;
But what Strange Adamantine Chain can bind,
Woman corrupted to be just or kind:
Or how can Man to an adultress shew
That Love, which to a faithful Wife is due.
I strugled hard, and all my Passions chekt,
And chang'd Revenge into a mild Respect,
That Good for Ill return'd might touch hear near,
And Gratitude might bind her more tan fear;
My former Love I every day renew'd;
And all the Signals of Oblivion shew'd;
Wink'd at small Faults, wou'd no such Trifles mind,
As accidental Failings not designed.
I all things to her Temper easie made,
Scorn'd to reflect, and hated to upbraid;
She chose (and rich it was) her own Attire,
Nay, had what a proud Woman could desire.

Thus the new Covenant I strictly kept,
And oft in private for her Failings wept,
Yet bore with seeming Cheerfulness those Cares,
That bring a Man too soon to grisled Hairs.

But all this kindness I dispens'd in vain.
Where Lust and base Ingratitude remain.
Lust, which if once in Female fancy fix'd,