To Mr. G. P. my Adopted Brother; on the nigh approach of his Nuptials

Dear Brother,
THy Marry'ng humour I dare scarce upbraid;
Lest thou retort upon me Musty Maid;
Yet prithee don't its joys too much esteem,
It will not prove what distance makes it seem:
Bells are good musick, if they're not too nigh,
But sure 'ts base living in a Belfery.
To see Lambs skip o're Hills is pretty sport,
But who wou'd justle with them in their Court?
Then let not Marriage thee in danger draw,
Unless thou'rt bit with Love's Tarantula;
A Frenzy which no Physick can reclaim,
But Crosses, crying Children, scolding Dame:
Yet who would such a dang'rous Med'cine try,
Where a disease attends the remedy;
Whilst Love's Diaryan it assays to cure,
It introduces Anger's Calenture.
Ah, pity thy good humour should be spoil'd,
The glory of thy wit and friendship soil'd:
From Married Man wit's Current never flows,
But grave and dull, as standing Pond, he grows;
Whilst th' other like a gentle stream do's play,
With this World's pebbles, which obstruct his way.
What should I talk, this and much more you know
Of all the troubles you must undergo.
Yet if we'll eat Tythe-pig, we must endure
The punishment to serve the Parson's cure.