My Wife, Who, Poor Wretch, Is Troubled

Fight The Good Fight; And Always Call To Mind That It Is Not You Who Are Mortal, But This Body Of Ours. For Your True Being Is Not Discerned By Perceiving Your Physical Appearance. But 'what A Man's Mind Is, That Is What He Is' Not That Individual Human Shape That We Identify Through Our Senses.

And It Is A Wonder What Will Be The Fashion After The Plagueisdoneastoperiwigs, Fornobody Will Daretobuy Any Haire For Fear Of The Infectionthat It Had Been Cut Off The Heads Of People Dead Of The Plague.

Poorpeoplestaying Intheir Houses Aslong Astill Thevery Fire Touched Them, And Then Running Into Boats Or Clambering From One Pair Of Stair By The Waterside To Another. And Among Other Things, The Poor Pigeons I Perceive Were Loath To Leave Their Houses, But Hovered About The Windows And Balconies Till They Were Some Of Them Burned, Their Wings, And Fell Down.

The Truth Is, I Do Indulge Myself A Little The More In Pleasure, Knowing That This Is The Proper Age Of My Life To Do It; And, Out Of My Observation That Most Men That Do Thrive In The World Do Forget To Take Pleasure During The Time That They Are Getting Their Estate, But Reserve That Till They Have Got One, And Then It Is Too Late For Them To Enjoy It.

My Wife, Who, Poor Wretch, Is Troubled With Her Lonely Life.