Book IX: The Husband, the Wife, and the Thief

A man that loved,--and loved his wife,--Still led an almost joyless life.No tender look, nor gracious word,Nor smile, that, coming from a bride,Its object would have deified,E'er told her doting lordThe love with which he burn'dWas in its kind return'd.Still unrepining at his lot,This man, thus tied in Hymen's knot,Thank'd God for all the good he got.But why? If love doth fail to seasonWhatever pleasures Hymen gives,I'm sure I cannot see the reasonWhy one for him the happier lives.However, since his wifeHad ne'er caress'd him in her life,He made complaint of it one night.The entrance of a thiefCut short his tale of grief,And gave the lady such a fright,She shrunk from dreaded harmsWithin her husband's arms.'Good thief,' cried he,'This joy so sweet, I owe to thee:Now take, as thy reward,Of all that owns me lord,Whatever suits thee save my spouse;Ay, if thou pleasest, take the house.'As thieves are not remarkablyO'erstock'd with modesty,This fellow made quite free.

From this account it doth appear,The passions all are ruled by fear.Aversion may be conquer'd by it,And even love may not defy it.But still some cases there have beenWhere love hath ruled the roast, I ween.That lover, witness, highly bred,Who burnt his house above his head,And all to clasp a certain dame,And bear her harmless through the flame.This transport through the fire,I own, I much admire;And for a Spanish soul, reputed coolish,I think it grander even than 'twas foolish.