Of their Chloes and Phillisses Poets may prate
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I sing my plain Country Joan |
Now twelve Years my Wife, still the Joy of my Life
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Blest Day that I made her my own, |
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Blest Day that I made her my own. |
2
Not a Word of her Face, her Shape, or her Eyes,
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Of Flames or of Darts shall you hear; |
Tho’ I Beauty admire ’tis Virtue I prize,
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That fades not in seventy Years, |
3
In Health a Companion delightfull and dear,
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Still easy, engaging, and Free, |
In Sickness no less than the faithfullest Nurse
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As tender as tender can be, |
4
In Peace and good Order, my Houshold she keeps
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Right Careful to save what I gain |
Yet chearfully spends, and smiles on the Friends
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I’ve the Pleasures to entertain |
5
She defends my good Name ever where I’m to blame,
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Friend firmer was ne’er to Man giv’n, |
Her Compassionate Breast, feels for all the Distrest,
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Which draws down the Blessing from Heav’n, |
6
Am I laden with Care, she takes off a large Share,
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That the Burthen ne’er makes [me] to reel, |
Does good Fortune arrive, the Joy of my Wife,
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Quite Doubles the Pleasures I feel, |
7
In Raptures the giddy Rake talks of his Fair,
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Enjoyment shall make him Despise, |
I speak my cool sence, that long Experience,
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And Enjoyment have chang’d in no wise, |
[Some Faults we have all, and so may my Joan,
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But then they’re exceedingly small; |
And now I’m us’d to ’em, they’re just like my own,
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I scarcely can see ’em at all, |
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I scarcely can see them at all.] |
8
Were the fairest young Princess, with Million in Purse
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To be had in Exchange for my Joan, |
She could not be a better Wife, mought be a Worse,
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So I’d stick to my Joggy alone |
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I’d cling to my lovely ould Joan. |