Man is so obstinate a Creature
No Remedy can change his Nature.
Fear, Shame, all ineffectual prove
To cure us from the Vice we love.
A Drunkard, that had spent his Wealth,
And by the Wine impar'd his Health,
One Night was very Drunk brought home;
His Wife conveys him to a Tomb;
Undresses him from Head to Feet,
And wraps him in a Winding-sheet:
He wakes, and finds he's not a Bed,
All over dress'd like one that's dead:
Besides, she counterfeits her Voice,
With Torch in hand, and grunting Noise,
Looks frightful in a strange Array,
To pass for Dame Ctesiphone.
And every thing is done so well,
He thinks he's fairly gone to Hell;
And satisfy'd it was his Merit,
He says to his dissembling Spirit,
Who are you in the Name of Evil?
She answers hoarsely I'm a Devil,
That carries Victuals to the Damn'd,
By me they are with Brimstone cramm'd.
What, says the Husband, do you think
Never to bring them any Drink?