She strives to soften his Impenitence;
Fain wou'd she turn him from the winding Maze,
Win him to Love, and be the same he was;
But Vain her Sighs; her Prayers, her Tears are Vain, }
She might as soon her _Freedom_ re-obtain, }
As think to Mollifie th' obdurate Man. }
Who like her Person, slights the fond Advice, }
And when with Love she wou'd his Soul Entice, }
Flies from her Arms, and Revels in his Vice; }
Till she, alas, foreseeing what must come,
Consents, and with the little left he packs her home.

Of such I give thee Caution to beware, }
Fly 'em, _Melissa_, like a Tim'rous Hare, }
That Strains along the Vales t'avoid the Hunters Snare. }

And from a Soldier too, thy flight direct;
In his Rough Arms, what can a Maid expect;
Long Absent days, and tedious Widow'd Nights:
Are those the Marriage Joys, the vasts Delights
We promise to our selves, with him we Love?
Or shall we else such Constant Creatures prove,
To leave our Country, and turn Fugitive:
Follow the Camp, and with the Wanderer Live.
'Mongst War-like sounds our softer hours to pass,
Scorch in the Sun, and Sleep upon the Grass:
No, no, _Melissa_, 'tis an Auxious Life;
Honour's his Mistress; let it be his Wife.

No Man of Bus'ness let thy Heart approve;