Cloe, by your Command, in Verse I write:
Shortly you'll bid me ride astride, and fight:
Such Talents better with our Sex agree,
Than lofty Flights of dangerous Poetry.
Among the Men, I mean the Men of Wit,
(At least, they past for such before they writ)
How many bold Advent'rers for the Bays,
Proudly designing large Returns of Praise;
Who durst that stormy, pathless World explore, }
Were soon dash'd back, and wreck'd on the dull Shore, }
Broke of that little Stock they had before. }
How wou'd a Woman's tott'ring Bark be tost,
Where stoutest Ships, (the Men of Wit) are lost?
When I reflect on this, I streight grow wise,
And my own self I gravely thus advise.
Dear Artemisa! Poetry's a Snare:
Bedlam has many Mansions; have a Care:
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad:
You think your self inspir'd, he thinks you mad:
Consider too, 'twill be discreetly done,
To make your self the Fiddle of the Town:
To find th' ill-humour'd Pleasure at their Need;
Curst when you fail, and scorn'd when you succeed.
Thus, like an arrant Woman, as I am, }
No sooner well convinc'd Writing's a Shame, }
That Whore is scarce a more reproachful Name }
Than Poetess—
Like Men that marry, or like Maids that woo,
because 'tis th' very worst thing they can do:
Pleas'd with the Contradiction, and the Sin,
Methinks I stand on Thorns till I begin.
Y'expect to hear, at least, what Love has past
In this lewd Town, since you and I saw last;
What Change has happen'd of Intrigues, and whether
The old ones last, and who and who's together.
But how, my dearest Cloe, shou'd I set
My Pen to write, what I wou'd fain forget?
Or name that lost thing Love without a Tear,
Since so debauch'd by ill-bred Customs here?
Love, the most gen'rous Passion of the Mind;
The softest Refuge Innocence can find;
The safe Director of unguided Youth;
Fraught with kind Wishes, and secur'd by Truth:
That Cordial-drop Heav'n in our Cup has thrown,
To make the nauseous Draught of Life go down:
On which one only Blessing God might raise,
In Lands of Atheists, Subsidies of Praise:
For none did e'er so dull and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and bless'd his Pow'r in Love:
This only Joy, for which poor we are made,
Is grown, like Play, to be an arrant Trade:
The Rooks creep in, and it has got of late,
As many little Cheats and Tricks as that.
But, what yet more a Woman's Heart wou'd vex,
'Tis chiefly carry'd on by our own Sex.
Our silly Sex, who, born like Monarchs, free, }
Turn Gypsies for a meaner Liberty; }
And hate Restraint, tho' but from Infamy: }
They call whatever is not common nice, }
And, deaf to Nature's Rule, or Love's Advice, }
Forsake the Pleasure to pursue the Vice. }
To an exact Perfection they have brought
The Action Love; the Passion is forgot.
'Tis below Wit, they tell you, to admire;
And ev'n without approving, they desire.
Their private Wish obeys the publick Voice,
'Twixt Good and Bad, Whimsey decides, not Choice.
Fashions grow up for Taste, at Forms they strike;
They know not what they wou'd have, nor what they like.
Bovy's a Beauty, if some few agree }
To call him so, the rest to that Degree }
Affected are, that with their Ears they see. }
Where I was visiting the other Night,
Comes a fine Lady with her humble Knight,
Who had prevail'd with her, thro' her own Skill,
As his Request, tho' much against his Will,
To come to London—
As the Coach stopt, I heard her Voice, more loud
Than a great bellied Woman's in a Crowd;
Telling the Knight that her Affairs require
He, for some Hours, obsequiously retire.
I think she was asham'd he shou'd be seen, }
Hard Fate of Husbands! the Gallant has been, }
Tho' a diseas'd, ill-favour'd Fool, brought in. }
Dispatch, says she, the Business you pretend,
Your beastly Visit to your drunken Friend.
A Bottle ever makes you look so fine;
Methinks I long to smell you stink of Wine.
Your Country-drinking Breath's enough to kill:
Sour Ale corrected with a Lemon-Pill.
Prithee, farewel: We'll meet again anon.
The necessary Thing bows, and is gone.
She flies up Stairs, and all the Haste does show
That fifty antick Postures will allow,
And then burst out—Dear Madam, am not I
The strangest, alter'd Creature: Let me die
I find my self ridiculously grown,
Embarrast with my being out of Town
Rude and untaught like any Indian Queen;
My Country Nakedness is plainly seen.
How is Love govern'd? Love that rules the State;
And pray who are the Men most worn of late?
When I was marry'd, Fools were a-la-mode;
The Men of Wit were held then incommode.
Slow of Belief, and fickle in Desire, }
Who, e'er they'll be persuaded, must enquire; }
As if they came to spy, and not to admire. }
With searching Wisdom, fatal to their Ease,
They still find out why, what may, shou'd not please:
Nay, take themselves for injur'd, when we dare
Make 'em think better of us than we are:
And, if we hide our Frailties from their Sights,
Call us deceitful Jilts, and Hypocrites:
They little guess, who at our Arts are griev'd,
The perfect Joy of being well deceiv'd.
Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds, grow; }
Rather than not be knowing, they will know, }
What being known, creates their certain Woe. }
Women should these, of all Mankind, avoid;
For Wonder, by clear Knowledge, is destroy'd.
Woman, who is an arrant Bird of Night, }
Bold in the dusk, before a Fool's dull sight, }
Must fly, when Reason brings the glaring Light. }
But the kind easie Fool, apt to admire }
Himself, trusts us, his Follies all conspire }
To flatter his, and favour our Desire. }
Vain of his proper Merit, he, with ease,
Believes we love him best, who best can please:
On him our gross, dull, common Flatteries pass;
Ever most happy when most made an Ass:
Heavy to apprehend; tho' all Mankind }
Perceive us false, the Fop, himself, is blind. }
Who, doating on himself,— }
Thinks every one that sees him of his Mind. }
These are true Womens Men—here, forc'd to cease
Thro' want of Breath, not will, to hold her Peace;
She to the Window runs, where she had spy'd
Her much-esteem'd, dear Friend, the Monkey ty'd:
With forty Smiles, as many antick Bows,
As if't had been the Lady of the House
The dirty, chatt'ring Monster she embrac'd;
And made it this fine tender Speech at last.
Kiss me, thou curious Miniature of Man;
How odd thou art, how pretty, how japan:
Oh! I could live and die with thee: Then on,
For half an Hour, in Complements she ran.
I took this Time to think what Nature meant, }
When this mixt Thing into the World she sent, }
So very wise, yet so impertinent. }
One that knows ev'ry Thing that God thought fit
Shou'd be an Ass thro' Choice, not want of Wit.
Whose Foppery, without the help of Sense,
Cou'd ne'er have rose to such an Excellence.
Nature's as lame in making a true Fop
As a Philosopher, the very Top
And Dignity of Folly we attain
By studious Search, and Labour of the Brain:
By Observation, Counsel, and deep Thought:
God never made a Coxcomb worth a Groat.
We owe that Name to Industry and Arts;
An eminent Fool must be a Fool of Parts.
And such a one was she; who had turn'd o'er
As many Books as Men; lov'd much, read more:
Had discerning Wit; to her was known
Every one's Fault, or Merit, but her own.
All the good Qualities that ever blest }
A Woman so distinguish'd from the rest, }
Except Discretion only, she possest. }
But now Mon Cher, dear Pug, she crys, adieu,
And the Discourse broke off, does thus renew:
You smile to see me, who the World perchance,
Mistakes to have some Wit, so far advance
The Interest of Fools, that I approve
Their Merit more than Men of Wit in Love.
But in our Sex too many Proofs there are
Of such whom Wits undo and Fools repair.
This, in my Time, was so observ'd a Rule,
Hardly a Wench in Town but had her Fool.
The meanest, common Slut, who long was grown
The Jest and Scorn of ev'ry Pit-Buffoon;
Had yet left Charms enough to have subdu'd
Some Fop or other; fond to be thought lewd.
Foster could make an Irish Lord a Nokes;
And Betty Morris had her City Cokes.
A Woman's ne'er so ruin'd but she can
Be still reveng'd on her Undoer, Man:
How lost soe'er, she'll find some Lover more,
A more abandon'd Fool than she a Whore.
That wretched Thing Corinna, who has run
Thro' all th' several Ways of being undone:
Cozen'd at first by Love, and living then
By turning the too dear-bought Cheat on Men:
Gay were the Hours, and wing'd with Joy they flew,
When first the Town her early Beauties knew:
Courted, admir'd, and lov'd, with Presents fed;
Youth in her Looks, and Pleasure in her Bed:
'Till Fate, or her ill Angel, thought it fit
To make her doat upon a Man of Wit:
Who found 'twas dull to love above a Day;
Made his ill-natur'd Jest, and went away.
Now scorn'd of all, forsaken and oppress'd,
She's a Memento Mori to the rest:
Diseas'd, decay'd, to take up half a Crown
Must mortgage her long Scarf, and Manto Gown;
Poor Creature, who unheard of, as a Fly,
In some dark Hole must all the Winter lie:
And Want and Dirt endure a whole half Year,
That for one Month she tawdry may appear.
In Easter Term she gets her a new Gown;
When my young Master's Worship comes to Town:
From Pedagogue and Mother just set free;
The Heir and Hopes of a great Family:
Who with strong Beer and Beef the Country rules;
And ever since the Conquest have been Fools:
And now with careful Prospect to maintain
This Character, lest crossing of the Strain
Shou'd mend the Booby-breed; his Friends provide
A Cousin of his own to be his Bride:
And thus set out—
With an Estate, no Wit, and a young Wife:
The sole Comforts of a Coxcomb's Life:
Dunghil and Pease forsook, he comes to Town,
Turns Spark, learns to be lewd, and is undone:
Nothing suits worse with Vice than want of Sense:
Fools are still wicked at their own Expence.
This o'er-grown School-Boy lost Corinna wins;
At the first dash to make an Ass begins:
Pretends to like a Man that has not known
The Vanities or Vices of the Town:
Fresh in his Youth, and faithful in his Love,
Eager of Joys which he does seldom prove:
Healthful and strong, he does no Pains endure,
But what the Fair One he adores can cure.
Grateful for Favours does the Sex esteem,
And libels none for being kind to him.
Then of the Lewdness of the Town complains,
Rails at the Wits and Atheists, and maintains
'Tis better than good Sense, than Pow'r or Wealth,
To have a Blood untainted, Youth and Health.
The unbred Puppy who had never seen
A Creature look so gay, or talk so fine;
Believes, then falls in Love, and then in Debt:
Mortgages all, ev'n to the ancient Seat,
To buy his Mistress a new House for Life:
To give her Plate and Jewels robs his Wife.
And when to th' Heighth of Fondness he is grown,
'Tis Time to poison him, and all's her own.
Thus meeting in her common Arms his Fate,
He leaves her Bastard-Heir to his Estate:
And as the Race of such an Owl deserves,
His own dull lawful Progeny he starves.
Nature (that never made a Thing in vain,
But does each Insect to some End ordain)
Wisely provokes kind-keeping Fools, no doubt,
To patch up Vices Men of Wit wear out.
Thus she ran on two Hours, some Grains of Sense
Still mixt with Follies of Impertinence.
But now 'tis Time I shou'd some Pity show }
To Cloe, since I cannot chuse but know, }
Readers must reap what dullest Writers sow. }
By the next Post I will such Stories tell,
As, join'd to these, shall to a Volume swell;
As true as Heaven, more infamous than Hell:
But you are tir'd, and so am I.
Farewel.