You've Seen A Pair Of Faithful Lovers Die: And Much You Care; For Most Of You Will Cry, 'Twas A Just Judgment On Their Constancy. For, Heaven Be Thank'D, We Live In Such An Age, When No Man Dies For Love, But On The Stage: And Even Those Martyrs Are But Rare In Plays; A Cursed Sign How Much True Faith Decays. Love Is No More A Violent Desire; 'Tis A Mere Metaphor, A Painted Fire. In All Our Sex, The Name Examined Well, Tis Pride To Gain, And Vanity To Tell. In Woman, 'Tis Of Subtle Interest Made: Curse On The Punk That Made It First A Trade! She First Did WIt's Prerogative Remove, And Made A Fool Presume To Prate Of Love. Let Honour And Preferment Go For Gold; But Glorious Beauty Is Not To Be Sold: Or, If It Be, 'Tis At A Rate So High, That Nothing But Adoring It Should Buy. Yet The Rich Cullies May Their Boasting Spare; They Purchase But Sophisticated Ware. 'Tis Prodigality That Buys Deceit, Where Both The Giver And The Taker Cheat. Men But Refine On The Old Half-Crown Way; And Women Fight, Like Swissers, For Their Pay.