On a Wife

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My dame and I, full twenty years,Liv'd man and wife together;I could no longer keep her here,She's gone the Lord knows whither.Of tongue she was exceeding free,I purpose not to flatter;Of all the wives that e'er I see,None e'er like her could chatter;Her body is disposed well,A comely grave doth hide her;And sure her soul is not in hell;The devil could never abide her;Which makes me think she is aloft;For in the last great thunderMethought I heard her well-known voiceRending the clouds asunder.

© Grose Francis