_The Seventh Comfort_

Oh she a happy, too too happy Bride,
That has a Husband snoring by her side,
Belching out Fumes of undigested wine,
And lies all Night like a good natur'd Swine,
whose Snoring serves as Musick to her Ears,
And keeps true Confort with her silent Tears,
That can himself no more than _Chaos_ move,
And still neglects the great affair of love,
She may indeed assume the name of wife,
But others know she's but a Nurse for life.


_The Eighth Comfort._

A drunken Husband tho may have good nature,
But here's a fullen Matrimonial Creature,
will ask, and will not, will ask, and will deny
Is Peevish, Cross, and cannot tell for why,
Not one kind look he will to Spouse afford,
Scarce speake at all, at least not one good word,
All the obliging arts that she can use,
To reconcile this angry pevish Spouse,
Avail no more, than if she took delight,
In washing Bricks, or Swarthy _Negroes_ white,
Lyons, and Tyger Men have learnt to tame;
Retaining nothing frightful but the Name,
But Man, unruly man, that Beast of reason,
'Gainst women still continues in his Treason.