Epigram 107. To my Wife

My Mall, how we desire both to go down,
And still how business stayes us in the town!
Since Plays are silenc'd by the Presbyter,
And Wine is grown so very naught and dear;
London seems frowning like a Step-dame now,
That look'd before with so serene a Brow.
Away therefore, and let us hasten home
To our Loves pledges our dear Mall and Tom.