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ELEGIES.
Elegie I.
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,
And yet complain'st of his great jealousie:
If swoln with poyson, he lay in'his last bed,
His body with a sere-cloth covered,
Drawing his breath, as thick and short as can
The nimblest crocheting Musician,
Ready with loathsom vomiting to spue
His soul out of one hell into a new,
Made deaf with his poor Kindreds howling cries,
Begging with few feign'd tears, great legacies,
Thou would'st not weep, but jolly' and frolick be,
As a slave, which too morrow should be free,
Yet weep'st thou, when thou seest him hungerly
Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousie.
O give him many thanks, he's courteous
That in suspecting kindly warneth us,
We must not, as we us'd, flout openly,
In scoffing riddles his deformity:
Nor, at his boord together being sat,
With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate.
Nor when he swoln, and pamper'd with high fare
Sits down and snorts, cag'd in his basket chair,
Must we usurp his own bed any more,
Nor kiss and play in his house as before.*

[CW: Now]