Well, Madam, haughtily,  cry'd,
Your Courage and your Virtue shall be try'd:
But to prevent all prospect of a Flight,
Some of my  shall be your Guard to Night.
By them, no doubt, you'll tenderly be us'd,
They seldom ask a Favour that's refus'd:
Perhaps you'll find them so genteely bred,
They'll leave you but few virtuous Tears to shed.
Surrounded with so innocent a Throng,
The Night must pass delightfully along:
And in the Morning, since you will not give
What I require, to let your Husband live,
You shall behold him sigh his latest Breath,
And gently swing into the Arms of Death.
His Fate he merits, as to Rebels due,
And yours will be as much deserv'd by you.