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Poem	Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die, And yet complain'st of his great jealousy; If swol'n with poison, he lay in his last bed, His body with a sere-bark covered, Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can The nimblest crocheting musician, Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew His soul out of one hell, into a new, Made deaf with his poor kindred's howling cries, Begging with few feigned tears, great legacies, Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly and frolic be, As a slave, which tomorrow should be free; Yet weep'st thou, when thou seest him hungerly Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousy. O give him many thanks, he's courteous, That in suspecting kindly warneth us Wee must not, as we used, flout openly, In scoffing riddles, his deformity; Nor at his board together being sat, With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate; Nor when he swol'n, and pampered with great fare Sits down, and snorts, caged in his basket chair, Must we usurp his own bed any more, Nor kiss and play in his house, as before. Now I see many dangers; for that is His realm, his castle, and his diocese. But if, as envious men, which would revile Their Prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile Into another country, and do it there, We play in another house, what should we fear? There we will scorn his houshold policies, His seely plots, and pensionary spies, As the inhabitants of Thames' right side Do London's Mayor; or Germans, the Pope's pride.
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