Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/289

 If she were mine, and had such tricks, I'd teach her how to handle sticks: Z—ds! I would ship her to Jamaica, Or truck the carrion for tobacco: I'd send her far enough away — Dear Will; but what would people say? Lord! I should get so ill a name, The neighbours round would cry out shame. Dick suffer'd for his peace and credit; But who believ'd him when he said it? Can he, who makes himself a slave, Consult his peace, or credit save? Dick found it by his ill success, His quiet small, his credit less. She serv'd him at the usual rate; She stunn'd, and then she broke his pate: And, what he thought the hardest case, The parish jeer'd him to his face; Those men, who wore the breeches least, Call'd him a cuckold, fool, and beast. At home he was pursu'd with noise; Abroad was pester'd by the boys: Within, his wife would break his bones; Without, they pelted him with stones; The 'prentices procur'd a riding , To act his patience, and her chiding. False patience and mistaken pride! There are ten thousand Dicks beside; Slaves to their quiet and good name, Are us'd like Dick, and bear the blame.