How vile are the Sordid Intrigues o' th'Town,
	 Cheating and Lying perpetually sway;
From Bully and Punk, to the Politick Gown,
	 With Plotting and Sotting, they waste the day;
	 All our Discourse is of Foreign Affairs,
		 The French and the Wars
		 Is always the Cry,
Marriage alas is declining,
	 Nay though a Poor Virgin lye Pining,
Ah curse of this jarring, what luck have I?

I thought a young Trader by Ogling Charms,
	 Into my Conjugal Fetters to bring,
I planted my Snare too for one that lov'd Arms,
	 But found his Design was another thing:
	 From the Court Province, down to the dull Citts,
		 Both Cullies, and Wits
		 of Marriage are shye,
Great are the Sins of the Nation,
	 Ah shame on the wretched Occasion,
Ah Curse of the Monsieur, what Luck have I?