Not Thee, mean I, O Sacred Muse, though oft
With Thee I sleep, and take a husband's joy
In thy sweet converse amorous, but she
To whom I waken must each morn when from
My watchful slumbers I am rudely ripped
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By raucous rant of wretched lady's wrath,
My wife. So scorn not him, who thee adores,
For Thou art Heavenly, she a nightmare grim.