Epithalamium
Since you, Mr. H**d, will marry black Kate,
Accept of good wishes for that blessed state:
May you fight all the day like a dog and a cat,
And yet ev’ry year produce a new brat.
Fal la!
May she never be honest—you never be sound;
May her tongue like a clapper be heard a mile round;
Till abandon’d by joy, and deserted by grace,
You hang yourselves both in the very same place.
Fal la!
