Chapter I: Front Matter

Transcriber's Note:

Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible.

Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
OE ligatures have been expanded.

THE WORKS OF THE
RIGHT HONOURABLE
_JOHN_ Earl of _Rochester_.

Consisting of
SATIRES, SONGS, TRANSLATIONS,
AND OTHER
Occasional POEMS.

_LONDON_:
Printed for the Booksellers of _London_ and
_Westminster_. 1718. Price 1 _s._

THE CONTENTS.

A _Satire against Mankind_. Page 3

_Tunbridge-Wells: A Satire._ p. 11

Horace_'s Nempe incomposita dixi pede, &c. imitated._ p. 19

_A Satire against Marriage._ p. 25

_A Letter from _Artemisa_ in the Town, to _Cloe_ in the
Country._ p. 29

_An Epistolary Essay from _M. G._ to _O. B._ upon their mutual
Poems._ p. 41

_The maim'd Debauchee._ p. 46

_Upon Nothing._ p. 49

_The Advice._ p. 53

_The Discovery._ p. 56

_The ninth Elegy in the second Book of _Ovid_'s Amours
translated._ To Love. p. 58

_Woman's Honour. A Song._ p. 62

_Grecian Kindness. A Song._ p. 64

_The Mistress. A Song._ p. 65

_A Song._ p. 67

_To _Corinna_. A Song._ p. 69

_A Young Lady to her antient Lover. A Song._ p. 71

_To a Lady, in a Letter. A Song._ p. 73

_The Fall. A Song._ p. 75

_Love and Life. A Song._ p. 77

_A Song._ p. 78

_A Song._ p. 79

_A Song._ p. 80

_Upon his leaving his Mistress._ p. 82

_Upon drinking in a Bowl._ p. 84

_A Song._ p. 86

_A Song._ p. 88

_The Answer._ p. 89

_A Song._ p. 91

_Constancy. A Song._ p. 94

_A Song._ p. 95

_FINIS._

A SATIRE AGAINST MANKIND.

Were I, who to my Cost already am,
One of those strange, prodigious Creatures _Man_,
A Spirit free, to chuse for my own Share, }
What Sort of Flesh and Blood I pleas'd to wear, }
I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear; }
Or any thing, but that vain Animal,
Who is so proud of being Rational.
The Senses are too gross; and he'll contrive
A sixth, to contradict the other five:
And before certain Instinct, will prefer
Reason, which fifty Times for one does err.
Reason, an _Ignis Fatuus_ of the Mind,
Which leaves the Light of Nature, Sense, behind.
Pathless, and dang'rous, wand'ring Ways it takes,
Thro Error's fenny Boggs, and thorny Brakes:
Whilst the misguided Follower climbs with Pain
Mountains of Whimseys heapt in his own Brain;
Stumbling from Thought to Thought, falls headlong down
Into Doubt's boundless Sea, where like to drown,
Books bear him up a while, and make him try
To swim with Bladders of Philosophy:
In hopes still to o'ertake the skipping Light, }
The Vapour dances in his dazzled Sight, }
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night. }
Then old Age and Experience, Hand in Hand,
Lead him to Death, and make him understand,
After a Search so painful, and so long,
That all his Life he has been in the wrong.
Huddled in Dirt the reas'ning Engine lies,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise:
Pride drew him in, as Cheats their Bubbles catch,
And made him venture to be made a Wretch:
His Wisdom did his Happiness destroy,
Aiming to know the World he should enjoy.
And Wit was his vain frivolous Pretence,
Of pleasing others at his own Expence.
For _Wits_ are treated just like _Common-Whores_;
First they're enjoy'd, and then kick'd out of Doors.
The Pleasure past, a threat'ning Doubt remains,
That frights th' Enjoyer with succeeding Pains.
Women, and Men of Wit are dang'rous Tools,
And ever fatal to admiring Fools.
Pleasure allures, and when the Fops escape, }
'Tis not that they're belov'd, but fortunate; }
And therefore what they fear, at Heart they hate. }
But now methinks some formal Band and Beard
Takes me to Task, Come on, Sir, I am prepar'd:
Then by your favour, any thing that's writ
Against this gibing, gingling Knack call'd Wit,
Likes me abundantly; but you'll take Care
Upon this Point not to be too severe:
Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this Part; }
For I profess I can be very smart }
On Wit, which I abhor with all my Heart. }
I long to lash it in some sharp Essay, }
But your grand Indiscretion bids me stay, }
And turns my Tide of Ink another Way. }
What Rage ferments in your degen'rate Mind,
To make you rail at Reason and Mankind?
Blest glorious Man, to whom alone kind Heav'n
An everlasting Soul hath freely giv'n;
Whom his great Maker took such Care to make,
That from himself he did the Image take;
And this fair Frame in shining Reason drest,
To dignify his Nature above Beast.
Reason, by whose aspiring Influence,
We take a Flight beyond Material Sense,
Dive into Mysteries, then soaring pierce
The flaming Limits of the Universe;
Search Heav'n and Hell, find out what's acted there,
And give the World true Grounds of Hope and Fear.

Hold, mighty Man, I cry; all this we know
From the pathetick Pen of _Ingelo_:
From _Patrick_'s Pilgrim, _Sibb_'s Soliloquies,
And 'tis this very Reason I despise;
This supernat'ral Gift, that makes a Mite
Think he's the Image of the Infinite;
Comparing his short Life, void of all Rest,
To the eternal and the ever-blest:
This busy, puzzling, Stirrer up of Doubt,
That frames deep Mysteries, then finds 'em out,
Filling with frantick Crouds of thinking Fools,
The rev'rend Bedlams, Colleges and Schools,
Born on whose Wings each heavy Sot can pierce
The Limits of the boundless Universe.
So charming Ointments make an old Witch fly,
And bear a crippl'd Carcase thro' the Sky.
'Tis this exalted Pow'r whose Bus'ness lies
In Nonsense and Impossibilities:
This made a whimsical Philosopher,
Before the spacious World his Tub prefer:
And we have many modern Coxcombs who
Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do.
But Thoughts were giv'n for Action's Government;
Where Action ceases, Thought's impertinent.
Our Sphere of Action is Life's Happiness,
And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an Ass.
Thus whilst against false Reas'ning I inveigh,
I own right Reason, which I would obey;
That Reason which distinguishes by Sense,
And gives us Rules of Good and Ill from thence;
That bounds Desires with a reforming Will,
To keep them more in Vigour, not to kill:
Your Reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy,
Renewing Appetites yours would destroy.
My Reason is my Friend, yours is a Cheat,
Hunger calls out, my Reason bids my eat;
Perversly yours your Appetite do's mock;
This asks for Food, that answers what's't a Clock.

This plain Distinction, Sir, your Doubt secures;
'Tis not true Reason, I despise but yours.
Thus, I think Reason righted: But for Man,
I'll ne'er recant, defend him if you can.
For all his Pride, and his Philosophy, }
'Tis evident Beasts are, in their Degree, }
As wise at least, and better far than he. }
Those Creatures are the wisest, who attain
By surest Means, the Ends at which they aim.
If therefore _Jowler_ finds, and kills his Hare,
Better than _Meres_ supplies Committee Chair;
Tho' one's a Statesman, t'other but a Hound;
_Jowler_ in Justice will be wiser found.
You see how far Man's Wisdom here extends:
Look next if Human Nature makes amends;
Whose Principles are most generous and just,
And to whose Morals you wou'd sooner trust.
Be judge your self, I'll bring it to the Test,
Which is the basest Creature, Man, or Beast:
Birds feed on Birds, Beasts on each other prey,
But savage Man alone do's Man betray.
Prest by Necessity, _They_ kill for Food;
Man undoes Man, to do himself no good.
With Teeth and Claws, by Nature arm'd, _They_ hunt
Nature's Allowance, to supply their Want:
But Man with Smiles, Embraces, Friendships, Praise,
Inhumanly his Fellow's Life betrays;
With voluntary Pains works his Distress;
Not thro' Necessity, but Wantonness.
For Hunger, or for Love, _They_ bite, or tear,
Whilst wretched Man is still in Arms for Fear;
For Fear he arms, and is of Arms afraid;
From Fear to Fear successively betray'd.
Base Fear, the Source whence his best Passions came,
His boasted Honour, and his dear-bought Fame:
The Lust of Pow'r, to which he's such a Slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave:
To which his various Projects are design'd,
Which makes him gen'rous, affable, and kind:
For which he takes such Pains to be thought wise,
And scrues his Actions in a forc'd Disguise:
Leads a most tedious Life in Misery,
Under laborious, mean Hypocrisy.
Look to the Bottom of his vast Design,
Wherein Man's Wisdom, Pow'r, and Glory join;
The Good he acts, the Ill he do's endure,
'Tis all from Fear, to make himself secure.
Meerly for Safety, after Fame they thirst;
For all Men would be Cowards, if they durst:
And Honesty's against all common Sense,
Men must be Knaves; 'tis in their own Defence
Mankind's dishonest: If they think it fair,
Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the Square,
You'll be undone--
Nor can weak Truth your Reputation save;
The Knaves will all agree to call you Knave.
Wrong'd shall he live, insulted o'er, opprest,
Who dares be less a Villain than the rest.
Thus here you see what Human Nature craves,
Most Men are Cowards, all Men shou'd be Knaves.
The Difference lies, as far as I can see,
Not in the thing it self, but the Degree;
And all the Subject Matter of Debate,
Is only who's a Knave of the first Rate.

_Tunbridge-WELLS_:

A SATIRE.

At Five this Morn, when _Phoebus_ rais'd his Head
From _Thetis_ Lap, I rais'd my self from Bed;
And mounting Steed, I trotted to the Waters, }
The Rendezvous of Fools, Buffoons, and Praters, }
Cuckolds, Whores, Citizens, their Wives and Daughters. }
My squeamish Stomach I with Wine had brib'd,
To undertake the Dose that was prescrib'd;
But turning Head, a sudden cursed Crew, }
That innocent Provision overthrew, }
And without drinking, made me purge and spew; }
From Coach and Six, a Thing unwieldy roll'd,
Whom Lumber-Cart more decently would hold,
As wise as Calf it look'd, as big as Bully,
But handled, prov'd a meer Sir _Nich'las Cully_:
A bawling Fop, a _Nat'ral Nokes_, and yet
He dar'd to censure, to be thought a Wit.
To make him more ridiculous in Spite,
Nature contriv'd the Fool should be a Knight.
How wise is Nature when she does dispense
A large Estate to cover Want of Sense.
The Man's a Fool, 'tis true, but that's no Matter, }
For he's a mighty Wit with those that flatter, }
But a poor Blockhead is a wretched Creature. }
_Grant the unlucky Stars, this o'ergrown Boy
To purchase some aspiring pretty Toy,
That may his Want of Sense and Wit supply,
As Buxom Crab-fish doth his Lechery._
Tho' he alone was dismal Sight enough, }
His Train contributed to set him off; }
All of his Shape, all of the self-same Stuff: }
No Spleen or Malice could on them be thrown, }
Nature had done the Bus'ness of Lampoon, }
And in their Looks their Characters were shewn. }
Endeavouring this irksome Sight to baulk, }
And a more irksom Noise, their silly Talk; }
I silently slunk down to'th Lower Walk. }
But often when one would _Charybdis_ shun,
Down upon _Scylla_ 'tis our Fate to run:
For there it was my cursed Luck to find
As great a Fop, tho' of another kind;
A tall, stiff Fool, that walk'd in _Spanish_ Guise, }
The Buckram Poppet never stirrd his Eyes, }
But grave as Owl he look'd, as Woodcock wise. }
He scorns the empty Talk of this made Age,
And speaks all Proverb, Sentence, and Adage:
Can with as much Solemnity buy Eggs,
As a Cabal can talk of their Intrigues:
Master of Ceremonies, yet can't dispense
With the Formality of Talking Sense.
From whence unto the Upper Walk I came,
Where a new Scene of Foppery began;
A Tribe of Curates, Priests, Canonical Elves,
Fit Company for none besides themselves,
Were got together; each his Distemper told,
Scurvy, Stone, Strangury; some were so bold,
To charge the Spleen to be their Misery,
And on that wise Disease lay Infamy:
But none had Modesty enough t'explain }
His Want of Learning, Honesty, or Brain, }
The general Diseases of that Train. }
These call themselves Ambassadors of Heaven,
And sawcily pretend Commissions given:
But should an _Indian_ King, whose small Command
Seldom extends beyond ten Miles of Land,
Send forth such wretched Fools on an Embassage.
He'd find but small Effects of such a Message.
List'ning, I found the Cob of all this Rabble,
Pert _Bayes_ with his Importance comfortable;
He being rais'd to an Archdeaconry,
By trampling on Religion, Liberty,
Was grown so great, and look'd too fat and jolly }
To be disturb'd with Care and Melancholly, }
Tho' _Marvel_ had enough expos'd his Folly. }
He drank to carry off some old Remains
His lazy dull Distemper left in's Brains;
Let him drink on; but 'tis not a whole Flood }
Can give sufficient Sweetness to his Blood, }
To make his Nature, or his Manners good. }
_Importance_ drank too, _tho' she had been no Sinner,
To wash away some Dregs he had spew'd in her_.
Next after these, a fulsom _Irish_ Crew
Of silly _Macks_ were offer'd to my View;
The things did talk, but hearing what they said,
I hid my self the Kindness to evade.
Nature had plac'd these Wretches beneath Scorn,
They can't be call'd so vile as they are born.
Amidst the Crowd, next I my self convey'd,
For now there comes, White-Wash and Paint being laid,
Mother and Daughter, Mistress and the Maid,
And Squire with Wig and Pantaloons display'd.
But ne'er could Conventicle, Play, or Fair,
For a true Medly with this Herd compare,
Here Lords, Knights, Squires, Ladies, and Countesses,
Chandlers, and barren Women, Sempstresses,
Were mix'd together; nor did they agree
More in their Humours, than their Quality.
Here waiting for Gallant young Damsel stood
Leaning on Cane, and muffl'd up in Hood.
The Wou'd-be-wit, whose Bus'ness was to woe,
With Hat remov'd, and solemn Scrape of Shoe,
Advances bowing, then gentilely shrugs,
And ruffl'd Fore-top into Order tugs;
And thus accosts her: _Madam, methinks the Weather
Is grown much more serene, since you came hither:
You influence the Heav'ns; but shou'd the Sun
Withdraw himself, to see his Rays outdone
By your bright Eyes, they could supply the Morn,
And make a Day, before the Day be born._
With Mouth screw'd up, conceited winking Eyes,
And Breast thrust forward, _Lard Sir_, she replies,
_It is your Goodness, and not my Deserts,
Which makes you shew this Learning, Wit, and Parts._
He puzzled, bites his Nails, both to display
The sparkling Ring, and think what next to say,
And thus breaks forth afresh; _Madam, Egad,
Your Luck at Cards, last Night, was very bad;
At Cribbidge Fifty Nine, and the next Shew,
To make the Game, and yet to want these Two.
G--D--me, Madam, I'm the Son of a Whore,
If, in my Life, I saw the like before._
To Pedlar's Stall he drags her, and her Breast
With Hearts, and such like foolish Toys he drest,
And then, more smartly to expound the Riddle
Of all his Prattle, gives her a _Scotch_ Fiddle.
Tir'd with this dismal Stuff, away I ran, }
Where were two Wives, with Girl just fit for Man, }
Short-breath'd, and palled Lips, and Visage wan. }
Some Court'sies past, and the old Compliment
Of being glad to see each other, spent,
With Hand in Hand they lovingly did walk,
And one began thus to renew the Talk:
_I pray, Good Madam, if it mayn't be thought
Rudeness in me, what Cause has hither brought
Your Ladyship?_ She soon replying, smil'd,
_We've got a good Estate, but have no Child;
And I'm inform'd, these Wells will make a barren
Woman as fruitful as a Coney-Warren._
The first return'd, _For this Cause I am come,
For I can have no Quietness at Home;
My Husband grumbles, tho' we have got one,
This poor young Girl, and mutters for a Son:
And this is griev'd with Head-ach, Pangs, and Throws,
Is full Sixteen, and never yet had Those._
She soon reply'd, _Get her a Husband, Madam;
I marry'd about that Age, and ne'er had had 'em
Was just like her, Steel Waters let alone,
A Back of Steel will better bring Them down.
And Ten to one, but they themselves will try
The same Means to increase the Family._
Poor silly Fribble! who by Subtilty,
Of Midwife, truest Friend to Lechery,
Perswaded art to be at Pains and Charge,
To give thy Wife Occasion to enlarge
Thy silly Head: For here walks _Cuff_ and _Kick_,
With Brawny Back, and Legs, and potent P----,
Who more substantially can cure thy Wife,
And on her half-dead Womb bestow new Life;
From these the Waters got their Reputation
Of good Assistants unto Propagation.
Some warlike Men were now got into th' Throng,
With Hair ty'd back, singing a bawdy Song;
Not much afraid, I got a nearer View,
And 'twas my Chance to know the dreadful Crew;
They were Cadets, that seldom can appear,
Damn'd to the Stint of Thirty Pounds a Year;
With Hawk on Fist, and Grey-Hound led in Hand,
The Dog and Foot-Boys sometimes to command,
And now having trimm'd a Cast of spavin'd Horse, }
With Three Half-Pence for Guineas in their Purse, }
Two rusty Pistols, Scarf about their Arse, }
Coat lin'd with Red, they here presume to swell,
This goes for Captain, that for Collonel.
So the Bear-Garden Ape, on his Steed mounted,
No longer is a Jackanapes accounted;
And is, by virtue of his Trump'ry, then
Call'd by the Name of the young Gentleman:
Bless me! thought I, what thing is Man, that thus
In all his Shapes is so ridiculous?
Our selves with Noise of Reason we do please,
In vain Humanity is our worst Disease;
Thrice happy Beasts are, who because they be
Of Reason void, are so of Foppery.
_Faith, I was so asham'd, that with Remorse,
I us'd the Insolence to mount my Horse;
For he doing only Things fit for his Nature,
Did seem to me by much the wiser Creature._

_HORACE_'s _Nempe incomposito dixi pede_, &c. IMITATED.

Well, Sir, 'tis granted, I said _Dryden_'s Rhimes
Were stoll'n, unequal, nay, dull many Times:
What foolish Patron is there found of his
So blindly partial to deny me this?
But that his Plays embroider'd up and down }
With Wit and Learning, justly please the Town, }
In the same Paper I as freely own. }
Yet having this allow'd, the heavy Mass
That stuffs up his loose Volumes, must not pass:
For by that Rule, I might as well admit
_Crown_'s tedious Sense for Poetry and Wit.
'Tis therefore not enough, when your false Sense
Hits the false Judgment of an Audience
Of clapping Fools assembling, a vast Crowd,
Till the throng'd Play-House crack with the dull Load;
Tho' ev'n that Talent merits, in some sort,
That can divert the Rabble and the Court;
Which blund'ring _Settle_ never could attain,
And puzz'ling _Otway_ labours at in vain:
But within due Proportion circumscribe
Whate'er you write, that with a flowing Tide
The Stile may rise, yet in its Rise forbear
With useless Words t'oppress the weary'd Ear.
Here be your Language lofty, there more light,
Your Rhet'rick with your Poetry unite:
For Elegance sake, sometimes allay the Force
Of Epithets, 'twill soften the Discourse
A Jest in Scorn points out, and hits the Thing
More home, than the morosest Satyr's Sting.
_Shakespear_ and _Johnson_ did in this excel,
And might herein be imitated well;
Whom refin'd _Etherege_ copies not at all,
But is himself a meer Original;
Nor that slow Drudge in swift Pindarick Strains, }
_Flatman_, who _Cowley_ imitates with Pains, }
And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose Reins. }
When _Lee_ makes temp'rate _Scipio_ fret and rave,
And _Hannibal_ a whining am'rous Slave,
I laugh, and wish the hot-brain'd Fustian Fool
In _Busby_'s Hands, to be well lash'd at School.
Of all our modern Wits, none seem to me }
Once to have touch'd upon true _Comedy_, }
But hasty _Shadwell_, and slow _Wycherley_. }
_Shadwell_'s unfinish'd Works do yet impart
Great Proofs of Force of Nature, none of Art;
With just bold Stokes he dashes here and there,
Shewing great Mastery with little Care;
Scorning to varnish his good Touches o'er,
To make the Fools and Women praise him more:
But _Wycherley_ earns hard whate'er he gains;
He wants no Judgment, and he spares no Pains:
He frequently excells, and at the least,
Makes fewer Faults than any of the rest.
_Waller_, by Nature for the Bays design'd, }
With Force, and Fire, and Fancy, unconfin'd, }
In Panegyrick do's excel Mankind: }
He best can turn, enforce, and soften things,
To praise great Conquerors, and flatter Kings.
For pointed Satyr I would _Buckhurst_ choose,
The best Good Man with the worst-natur'd Muse.
For Songs and Verses mannerly obscene, }
That can stir Nature up by Springs unseen, }
And, without forcing Blushes, warm the Queen; }
_Sedley_ has that prevailing, gentle Art, }
That can with a resistless Pow'r impart }
The loosest Wishes to the chastest Heart; }
Raise such a Conflict, kindle such a Fire
Betwixt declining Virtue and Desire,
Till the poor vanquish'd Maid dissolves away
In Dreams all Night, in Sighs and Tears all Day.
_Dryden_ in vain try'd this nice Way of Wit,
For he to be a tearing Blade thought fit;
But when he would be sharp, he still was blunt,
To frisk and frolick Fancy he'd cry ----
Wou'd give the Ladies a dry bawdy Bob;
And thus he got the Name of Poet Squab:
But to be just, 'twill to his Praise be found,
His Excellences more than Faults abound;
Nor dare I from his sacred Temples tear
The Laurel, which he best deserves to wear;
But do's not _Dryden_ find ev'n _Johnson_ dull?
_Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_ incorrect and full
Of _Lewd Lines_, as he calls 'em? _Shakespear_'s Stile
Stiff and affected? To his own the while,
Allowing all the Justice that his Pride
So arrogantly had to these deny'd?
And may not I have Leave impartially
To search and censure _Dryden_'s Works, and try
If those gross Faults his choice Pen doth commit,
Proceed from Want of Judgment, or of Wit?
Or if his lumpish Fancy do's refuse
Spirit and Grace to his loose slattern Muse?
Five Hundred Verses ev'ry Morning writ
Prove him no more a Poet than a Wit:
Such scribb'ling Authors have been seen before, }
_Mustapha_, the _Island Princess_, Forty more, }
Were things, perhaps, compos'd in Half an Hour. }
To write, what may securely stand the Test
Of being well read over, thrice at least;
Compare each Phrase, examine ev'ry Line,
Weigh ev'ry Word, and ev'ry Thought refine;
Scorn all Applause the vile Rout can bestow,
And be content to please those few who know.
Canst thou be such a vain mistaken Thing,
To wish thy Works might make a Play-house ring
With the unthinking Laughter and poor Praise
Of Fops and Ladies factious for thy Plays?
Then send a cunning Friend to learn thy Doom
From the shrewd Judges in the Drawing Room.
I've no Ambition on that idle Score, }
But say with _Betty Morris_ heretofore, }
When a Court Lady call'd her _Buckhurst_'s Whore: }
I please one Man of Wit, am proud on't too,
Let all the Coxcombs dance to Bed to you.
Should I be troubled when the purblind Knight, }
Who squints more in his Judgment, than his Sight, }
Picks silly Faults, and censures what I write? }
Or when the poor-fed Poets of the Town,
For Scraps and Coach-room cry my Verses down?
I loath the Rabble; 'tis enough for me;
If _Sedley_, _Shadwell_, _Sheppard_, _Wycherley_,
_Godolphin_, _Butler_, _Buckhurst_, _Buckingham_, }
And some few more, whom I omit to name, }
Approve my Sense, I count their Censure Fame. }

A SATIRE AGAINST MARRIAGE.

Husband, thou dull unpitied Miscreant,
Wedded to Noise, to Misery and Want:
Sold an eternal Vassal for thy Life,
Oblig'd to cherish, and to hate thy Wife:
Drudge on till Fifty at thy own Expence,
Breathe out thy Life in one Impertinence:
Repeat thy loath'd Embraces every Night,
Prompted to act by Duty, not Delight:
Christen thy froward Bantling once a Year,
And carefully thy spurious Issue rear:
Go once a Week to see the Brat at Nurse,
And let the young Impostor drain thy Purse:
Hedge-Sparrow-like, what Cuckows have begot,
Do thou maintain, incorrigible Sot.
O! I could curse the Pimp, (who could do less?)
He's beneath Pity, and beyond Redress.
Pox on him, let him go, what can I say?
_Anathema_'s on him are thrown away:
The Wretch is marry'd and hath known the worst;
And his great Blessing is, he can't be curst.
_Marriage!_ O Hell and Furies! name it not;
Hence, ye holy Cheats, a Plot, a Plot!
_Marriage!_ 'Tis but a licens'd Way to sin;
A Noose to catch religious Woodcocks in:
Or the Nick-Name of Love's malicious Fiend,
Begot in Hell to persecute Mankind:
'Tis the Destroyer of our Peace and Health,
Mispender of our Time, our Strength and Wealth;
The Enemy of Valour, Wit, Mirth, all
That we can virtuous, good, or pleasant call:
By Day 'tis nothing but an endless Noise,
By Night the Eccho of forgotten Joys:
Abroad the Sport and Wonder of the Crowd,
At Home the hourly Breach of what they vow'd:
In Youth it's _Opium_ to our lustful Rage,
Which sleeps awhile, but wakes again in Age:
It heaps on all Men much, but useless Care;
For with more Trouble they less happy are.
Ye Gods! that Man, by his own Slavish Law,
Should on himself such Inconvenience draw.
If he would wiser Nature's Laws obey,
Those chalk him out a far more pleasant Way,
When lusty Youth and fragrant Wine conspire
To fan the Blood into a gen'rous Fire.
We must not think the Gallant will endure
The puissant Issue of his Calenture,
Nor always in his single Pleasures burn,
Tho' Nature's Handmaid sometimes serves the Turn:
No: He must have a sprightly, youthful Wench,
In equal Floods of Love his Flames to quench:
One that will hold him in her clasping Arms,
And in that Circle all his Spirits charms;
That with new Motion and unpractis'd Art,
Can raise his Soul, and reinsnare his Heart.
Hence spring the Noble, Fortunate, and Great,
Always begot in Passion and in Heat:
But the dull Offspring of the Marriage-Bed,
What is it! but a human Piece of Lead;
A sottish Lump ingender'd of all Ills;
Begot like Cats against their Fathers Wills.
If it be bastardis'd, 'tis doubly spoil'd,
The Mother's Fear's entail'd upon the Child.
Thus whether illegitimate, or not,
Cowards and Fools in Wedlock are begot.
Let no enabled Soul himself debase
By lawful Means to bastardise his Race;
But if he must pay Nature's Debt in Kind,
To check his eager Passion, let him find
Some willing Female out, who, tho' she be
The very Dregs and Scum of Infamy:
Tho' she be Linsey-Woolsey, Bawd, and Whore,
Close-stool to _Venus_, Nature's Common-Shore,
Impudent, Foolish, Bawdy, and Disease,
The Sunday Crack of Suburb-Prentices;
What then! She's better than a Wife by half;
And if thour't still unmarried, thou art safe.
With Whores thou canst but venture; what thou'st lost,
May be redeem'd again with Care and Cost;
But a damn'd Wife, by inevitable Fate,
Destroys Soul, Body, Credit, and Estate.

A LETTER FROM _Artemisa_ in the Town, TO _CLOE_ in the Country.

_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._

An EPISTOLARY ESSAY From _M.G._ to _O.B._ Upon their mutual POEMS.

Dear Friend,

I hear this Town does so abound
With saucy Censurers, that Faults are found
With what of late we (in poetick Rage)
Bestowing threw away on the dull Age.
But (howsoe'er Envy their Spleens may raise,
To rob my Brows of the deserved Bays)
Their Thanks at least I merit; since thro' me
They are Partakers of your Poetry:
And this is all I'll say in my Defence, }
T'obtain one Line of your well-worded Sence, }
I'll be content t'have writ the _British_ Prince. }
I'm none of those who think themselves inspir'd
Nor write with the vain Hope to be admir'd;
But from a Rule I have (upon long Trial)
T'avoid with Care all sort of Self-denial.
Which way soe'er Desire and Fancy lead,
(Contemning Fame) that Path I boldly tread;
And if exposing what I take for Wit, }
To my dear self a Pleasure I beget, }
No Matter tho' the cens'ring Criticks fret. }
These whom my Muse displeases are at Strife,
With equal Spleen against my Course of Life,
The least Delight of which I'll not forego,
For all the flatt'ring Praise Man can bestow.
If I design'd to please, the Way were then
To mend my Manners, rather than my Pen:
The first's unnatural, therefore unfit; }
And for the second, I despair of it, }
Since Grace is not so hard to get as Wit. }
Perhaps ill Verses ought to be confin'd
In meer good Breeding, like unsav'ry Wind,
Were reading forc'd, I shou'd be apt to think,
Men might no more write scurvily than stink:
But 'tis your Choice, whether you'll read, or no.
If likewise of your Smelling it were so,
I'd fart just as I write, for my own Ease,
Nor shou'd you be concern'd unless you please.
I'll own that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you.
What tho' the Excrements of my dull Brain,
Flows in a harsh and an insipid Strain;
While your rich Head eases it self of Wit,
Must none but Civet Cats have leave to shit?
In all I write, shou'd Sense, and Wit, and Rhime
Fail me at once, yet something so sublime,
Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see,
It cou'd have been produc'd by none but me.
And that's my End; for Man can wish no more
Than so to write, as none e'er writ before.
Yet why am I no Poet of the Times?
I have Allusions, Similes, and Rhimes,
And Wit; or else 'tis hard that I alone,
Of the whole Race of Mankind shou'd have none.
Unequally the partial Hand of Heav'n,
Has all but this one only Blessing giv'n.
The World appears like a great Family,
Whose Lord, oppress'd with Pride and Poverty,
(That to a few great Bounty he may show)
Is fain to starve the num'rous Train below:
Just so seems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more Creatures than it can maintain:
Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves,
And for one Prince it makes ten thousand Slaves.
In Wit, alone, 't has been Magnificent, }
Of which so just a Share to each is sent, }
That the most avaricious are content. }
For none e'er thought (the due Division's such)
His own too little, or his Friends too much.
Yet most Men shew, or find, great want of Wit,
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
But I who am of sprightly Vigour full,
Look on Mankind, as envious, and dull.
Born to my self, I like my self alone;
And must conclude my Judgment good, or none:
For cou'd my Sense be naught, how shou'd I know
Whether another Man's were good or no,
Thus I resolve of my own Poetry,
That 'tis the best; and there's a Fame for me.
If then I'm happy, what does it advance
Whether to Merit due, or Arrogance?
Oh! but the World will take Offence hereby:
Why then the World shall suffer for't, not I.
Did e'er this saucy World and I agree,
To let it have its beastly Will on me?
Why shou'd my prostituted Sense be drawn,
To ev'ry Rule their musty Customs spawn?
But Men may censure you, 'tis two to one
Whene'er they censure they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name,
So foolish, and so false, as common Fame:
It calls the Courtier Knave; the plain Man rude;
Haughty the Grave; and the Delightful lewd;
Impertinent the Brisk; morose the Sad;
Mean the Familiar; the Reserv'd one mad.
Poor helpless Woman, is not favour'd more,
She's a sly Hypocrite, or publick Whore.
Then who the Dev'l wou'd give this to be free
From th' innocent Reproach of Infamy.
These Things consider'd, make me, in despite
Of idle Rumour, keep at home and write.

THE _Maim'd Debauchee_.

I.

As some brave Admiral in former War
Depriv'd of Force, but prest with Courage still,
Two rival Fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the Top of an adjacent Hill.

II.

From whence (with Thoughts full of Concern) he views
The wise, and daring Conduct, of the Fight:
And each bold Action to his Mind renews,
His present Glory, and his past Delight.

III.

From his fierce Eyes flashes of Rage he throws,
As from black Clouds when Lightning breaks away,
Transported thinks himself amidst his Foes,
And absent yet enjoys the bloody Day.

IV.

So when my Days of Impotence approach,
And I'm by Love and Wine's unlucky Chance,
Driv'n from the pleasing Billows of Debauch,
On the dull Shore of lazy Temperance.

V.

My Pains at last some Respite shall afford,
While I behold the Battels you maintain;
When Fleets of Glasses sail around the Board,
From whose Broad-sides Vollies of Wit shall rain.

VI.

Nor shall the Sight of honourable Scars,
Which my too forward Valour did procure,
Frighten new-listed Soldiers from the Wars,
Past Joys have more than paid what I endure.

VII.

Shou'd some brave Youth (worth being drunk) prove nice,
And from his fair Inviter meanly shrink,
'Twould please the Ghost of my departed Vice,
If at my Counsel he repent and drink.

VIII.

Or shou'd some cold complexion'd Sot forbid,
With his dull Morals, our Nights brisk Alarms,
I'll fire his Blood by telling what I did,
When I was strong, and able to bear Arms.

IX.

I'll tell of Whores attack'd their Lords at home,
Bawds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won;
Windows demolish'd, Watches overcome,
And handsome Ills by my Contrivance done.

X.

With Tales like these I will such Heat inspire.
As to important Mischief shall incline;
I'll make him long some ancient Church to fire,
And fear no Lewdness they're call'd to by Wine.

XI.

Thus Statesman-like I'll saucily impose,
And safe from Danger valianly advise;
Shelter'd in Impotence urge you to Blows,
And being good for nothing else be wise.

Upon _NOTHING_.

I.

_Nothing!_ thou elder Brother ev'n to Shade,
Thou hadst a Being e'er the World was made,
And (well fix'd) art alone, of ending not afraid.

II.

E'er Time and Place were, Time and Place were not,
When primitive _Nothing_ something straight begot,
Then all proceeded from the great united--What.

III.

Something the gen'ral Attribute of all,
Sever'd from thee, it's sole Original,
Into thy boundless self must undistinguish'd fall.

IV.

Yet something did thy mighty Pow'r command,
And from thy fruitful Emptiness's Hand,
Snatch'd Men, Beasts, Birds, Fire, Air, and Land.

V.

Matter, the wicked'st Off-spring of thy Race,
By Form assisted, flew from thy Embrace,
And rebel Light obscur'd thy rev'rend dusky Face.

VI.

With Form and Matter, Time, and Place did join,
Body, thy Foe, with thee did Leagues combine
To spoil thy peaceful Realm, and ruin all thy Line.

VII.

But turn-coat Time assists the Foe in vain,
And, brib'd by thee, assists thy short-liv'd Reign.
And to thy hungry Womb drives back thy Slaves again.

VIII.

Tho' Mysteries are barr'd from Laick Eyes,
And the Divine alone, with Warrant, pries
Into thy Bosom, where the Truth in private lies.

IX.

Yet this of thee the Wise may freely say,
Thou from the Virtuous nothing tak'st away,
And to be part with thee the Wicked wisely pray.