A Satirical Shrub

A woman's friendship! God, whom I trust in,
Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin,
Amongst my many other, that I may
No more, I am sorry for so fond cause, say
At fifty years, almost, to value it,
That ne'er was known to last above a fit!
Or have the least of good, but what it must
Put on for fashion, and take up on trust.
Knew I all this afore? had I perceiv'd,
That their whole life was wickedness, though weav'd
Of many colours; outward, fresh from spots,
But their whole inside full of ends, and knots?
Knew I that all their dialogues and discourse
Were such as I will now relate, or worse?
Knew I this woman? yes, and you do see,
How penitent I am, or I should be.
Do not you ask to know her, she is worse
Than all ingredients made into one curse,
And that pour'd out upon mankind, can be:
Think but the sin of all her sex, 'tis she!
I could forgive her being proud! a whore!
Perjur'd! and painted! if she were no more —
But she is such, as she might yet forestall
The devil, and be the damning of us all.