No Charms his damn'd ill nature can release,
_Satan_, must only _Satan_ disposes.


_The Ninth Comfort._

Nor Marriage is alone the dang'rous shelf,
On which a woman may destroy her self,
Believe no whineing Fool that Swears he loves,
And for your Pity to his Passion moves:
with fair decoying words he glids the Cheat,
Tells her the Sin, nor Danger are so great,
The joy is past the reach of Humane view,
And adds it will for ever bind him to be True:
But oh! if Maids upon this Quicksand run,
They're lost past hope, and are for e'er undone,


_The Tenth Comfort._

Another swears he'll keep you all your Life,
Without the ugly Names, _of Man and Wife_.
And to that End what Arts, what Tricks are laid,
T' insnare the Virtuous Young unthinking Maid,
What rev'rend Bawd's made use of to Entice,
The Fair one's liking to that Modish Vice.
How she at last is guided to his Arms,
Where for a while he Doats upon her Charms.
But long she can't the airy Title hold,
Her look'd for Joys are scarce a Twelve Month Old,