Epigram (Fy, Delia, talk no more of Love)

Fy, Delia, talk no more of Love,
It galls me to the Heart,
You Threescore are, I doubt above,
For all your plaist'ring Art.
And therefore spare your pains you may;
For though you press me Night and Day,
I can't do that my Soul abhors:
Or by your Art's assistance, though I might
Prevail upon my appetite,
I dur'st not couple, though I swear
With you, of all the World, for fear
Of Cuckolding my Ancestors.