The Drunkard and his Wife.

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?