The Restor'd maiden-head a new satyr against woman : occasion'd by an infant who was the cause of the death of my friend.

The Restor'd maiden-head a new satyr against woman : occasion'd by an infant who was the cause of the death of my friend.

Table of contents

Title page

THE PREFACE.

A SATYR, &c.

A SATYR, &c.

[Page]

BRave Man! the Sacrifice of Female spite,

In Tears or Blood thy Loud-tongu'd Wronges we'll write.

Whilst ev'n thy Step-dame England pities thee,

Whilst thy distracted Mother Albanie

Her dear-lov'd Son's untimely Fall laments

His sudden Loss, and too-hard Fate resents.

Her Groans are heard to both her distant Seas,

From the Picts-wall to frozen Orcades;

Nor shall she Mourn alone, nor shall he go

All unreveng'd to th' empty Shades below,

To those vain Fields of Joy which Poets dream,

Beyond black Styx and Lethe's lazy Stream:

If Innocent Polixena must fall,

O Thetis Son! to attend thy Funeral;

To Free the Grecian Fleet with Storms distrest,

And make thy mighty injur'd Manes rest:

More justly we to Satyrs rage expose

The cursed Helen, root of all our Woes:

[Page] Her Fame, t'appease our murther'd Hero, dyes,

We'll on his Herse her Honour sacrifice;

All her bewitching Charms just Victims made,

Expiring round the Tomb t'attone his shade.

Nay, her whole treach'rous perjur'd Sex comes in,

Those Serpents made to tempt the World to Sin;

Then damn 'em, and despise 'em for't—O why,

(Might we thus reason with the Deity?)

Are the less harmless Fiends in Darkness chain'd,

While Woman, subtler Woman, free remain'd

To plague the World, yet still as fair, as bright

As all their kindred Devils in Robes of Light?

Their Sentence less, altho' their Crime was more;

They fell, yet still as lovely as before.

Through every Street, and Park, and Walk they glare,

As proud and thick as Daemons in the Air,

All shapes they take, but all, alike, to vent

Their malice deep, and gloomy discontent;

And whom they can't destroy, at least torment.

How blest were Man, how free from Pain and Vice

And all the Earth ev'n yet one Paradice,

Had not hard Fate for the alloy of Life

Doom'd him to that Familiar Devil, a Wife;

Condemn'd to th' Mines in that unhappy Ground,

Where restless Sprites are ever hov'ring round

'Tis true, when first the fatal Contract's made,

The silly Wretch believes not he's betray'd:

[Page] The Tail between the Legs is gently slid,

Th' affrightfull Cloven-Foot and Horns are hid:

Enchanted heaps of Gold lie scatter'd round

With flatt'ring Musick's more enchanting sound,

With Eyes which more than Gold or Musick wound.

The miserable Captive hopes to find

A long long happy Term of years behind:

Happy as now his hasty Moments move,

Nor wou'd he change his Bliss with those above.

Persuade him not—'tis Envy gives th' advice,

Think not to cheat him of his Paradice;

It mayn't, it can't, it shan't be otherwise.

But when the Bond to make the Bargain good

Is Sign'd with something more refin'd than Blood;

O how th' enchanted heaps of Gold decay,

The pleasure of the Musick wears away,

Or turns to rells; the Eyes uncharming grow,

And firy Red, like Cockatrices glow.

The Angel fades, the Hag and Wife appears

All full of hatefull Wrinkles, full of Years;

Nothing of Woman left but Tongue and Tears.

Too late the Wretch repents, he grieves too late

His desp'rate Fortunes, and his lost Estate,

Deep swallow'd in inevitable Fate.

Yet happier He than him whose Plague's to come;

For now the worst is o're, he knows his doom.

[Page] But what wou'd t'other give his Pain were past,

Since 'tis what all must come to, first or last.

Where e'er the Ludicrous She-Devil leads

O'er craggy Mountains, through wide watry Meads.

O'er Hedge and Ditch, a weary pathless way,

Untaught unbridled Youth she leads astray;

She leads, they follow, and willingly obey.

One while the wild capricious Fiend delights

To scare her trembling slaves with ghastly sights;

Is all her self, blew Poyson from her Breath;

She scatters, from her Eyes, Despair and Death.

Racks, Pistols, Gibbets, Daggers them presents;

And worse, with Love and Jealousie torments;

Yet the next moment on the Wretches smiles,

And with her well-known flattring Arts beguiles.

Beautious as were the Seraphs e'er they fell,

And dress'd in all the glaring Pomp of Hell

Thus cheats 'em back to Life with Fits of ease;

She, when she will, the crippled Mice can seize.

Their dying Agonies thus, often, sees,

And, lingring, makes 'em perish by degrees;

Nay, taught by Italian Arts, more deep than Hell,

(For Satan goes to School to Matchiavel,)

Makes 'em secure Damnation e'er they go,

Then Body and Soul dispatches at a Blow.

For Mischief these about the World she'll send;

Makes this betray his Country, that his Friend.

[Page] To Newgate do's whole sholes each Month prefer,

And Bedlam wou'd be empty but for Her.

Woman, there's Ropes and Daggers in the Name;

The Dregs of the Creation, Nature's Shame:

Yet This is worse than all, if worse can be;

They're the Epitomie of Hell, and She

Is all her Sexes curs'd Epitomie.

Poor harmless Infant! I her Fate deplore!

Fourteen Hands high the Beast, nor less, nor more;

Scarce large enough, alas! to make a W—.

Weak new-spawn'd Toad, Innocent pretty thing,

Young Viper; who wou'd think it yet shou'd sting?

Or Scorpion rather, for her Venom lies

Not in her Mouth, (tho' wide,) nor in her Eyes:

Tho', like a Basilisk's, they the Heart assail,

The Scorpion bears its Poyson in its Tail;

Where e'er it falls, it blasts and burns the Ground,

And spreads too sure Destruction all a-round.

Had Cleopatra's Asps on her bin try'd,

Sh' had'scap'd, and the more harmless Worms had dy'd:

Her Poyson of the too had bin the worst,

And in a moment they'd have swell'd and burst.

Frail Nature's work, with much ado, contains

The fatal Venom bubling in her Veins:

[Page] In her swol'n Veins, Hells of hot Sulphur roll,

Some lustfull Devil supplies the place of Soul:

Of nobler humane Off-spring name her not,

By salt Asmodeus on a She-goat got;

Yet salter than the Linage whence she came;

See how she do's ev'n her black Parents shame;

She's ten-times hotter than her Sire or Dam.

That fair, that false Egyptian Crocadile,

Who fix'd her Nets along the Banks of Nile;

To fetter Princes in her servile Chain,

And see proud Generals wait, and fill her Train;

Who Fate, and Blood, and Murther round her hurl'd,

That fatal Comet of the Roman World;

By Caesar and lost Antony ador'd,

That Queen of Whores her self scarce earlier Whor'd.

Tho' in her Leading strings 'tis thought she stray'd;

And e'er she learnt her own, forgot the name of Maid.

Nor with the Brand of Common Fame content,

She's a State-W— by Act of —.

For tell me that wise Oedipus that can,

What is she else, who having tasted Man;

Tasted, and gorg'd her self, and pleas'd to th'Life,

Is neither Widow, ravish'd Maid, nor Wife?

This monstrous Sight expos'd to publick view,

An odder, fruitfull Africk never knew,)

[Page] Wou'd raise her Fortune soon, and make it more

Than those vast Sums which damn'd her deep before!

August Assembly! might the Muse presume

With rude unhallow'd Feet your sacred Room

T' approach and view, she'd search a-round and try

Where the miraculous secret Power did lie;

That Power by which you what you please effect,

And like the Guardian Minds, above direct

Our Under-World: But as my Reason may

Th' Eternal Law givers just Dictates weigh,

Before I this believe, or that obey.

As by that Touch-stone, which alone h'has giv'n,

T' examin the Credentials sent from Heav'n.

If I the Royal Signet find not there;

If all's not stampt with true, and good, and fair;

I must not say th' Almighty's Will's amiss;

I may, I dare, I must—that' tis not his.

If this ev'n Heav'n permits, permit me too

For once to hope my Sences are not true;

To hope that only I mistake not you.

Fate cannot what is lost, the same restore,

Nor all the Wit and Power on Earth do more;

What's past is past—a W— is still a W—.

The nimble God may argue while he will,

Yet spite of's Wit, Sosia is Sosia still.

[Page] How long so e'er he drub him, still's the same,

And keeps the person, tho' he lose the name.

Poor modest Creature! must thy wish't Escape

From jealous Guardian-Dam be call'd a Rape?

How oft hast thou bin ravish'd thus before?

How oft the same sweet peal rung o're and o're?

The first blest Night, by the most blest of Men,

All Bridegrooms such be sure are reckon'd then;

How often didst thou wish the same agen?

What tickling Pleasure, mounted to the height,

Swum in thy foolish Eyes that fatal Night,

And did the eager Youth to thy hot Arms invite

Thus Helen ravish'd was when Theseus bore

The willing Plunder from the Grecian Shore:

She cry'd, but softly 'twas—quite dumb with fear—

Poor cautious Fool—lest any one shou'd hear.

And when the dreadfull Warrier had convey'd

To some convenient place the trembling Maid,

She bore, or else the Poet says not true,

His amorous Rage as peaceably as you.

Not her fair Mother Leda stiller lay,

When Masquerading Jove did her betray.

She stroak'd the Swans soft plumes, of what came after

Dreaming no more than did her unborn Daughter.

[Page] She's ne'er the worse, fair Helen's Helen still,

These Fortunes ever may do what they will,

A Bride for Menelaus as compleat

As you for the next Plyer in the Street.

But if no Rape's i'th' case, 'tis yet confest

By all, the Fact was Felony at least.

O Crime, abhorr'd! no sign of discontent;

No least effort the Robbery to prevent;

Surely he stole her with her own consent.

But still the Sages of the Law do fear

That more than Simple Felony was here:

Some that 'twas Burglary will make't appear.

Their Sophistry we know, and right we take 'em,

Where Doors are always open none can break 'em.

Others with higher Crimes Lysander load,

'Twas as flat Robb'ry as any o'th' Road.

But that he bid her stand, she dares not tell;

For e're he drew his Pistol, down she fell.

Tho' down she fell she was not baffled quite,

But on all four, like Venner's gang, did fight.

Aloud the subtle Frigat quarter roar'd,

Till with th' Assailant she was board and board:

Broadside for Broadside then so briskly fir'd,

That, Man of War sheer'd off and first was tir'd.

So greedily the hungry Bride fell to,

The Bridegroom's haste could hardly hers out-do:

[Page] She almost curst the Parson to his Face

For bantring 'em with such a tedious Grace:

Her Stomach's patience cou'd no longer hold;

Besides, she wisely fear'd the Meat wou'd cold:

Against his long good Pray'rs devoutly rail'd,

As the worst Crimes for which he e're was Jail'd.

But never did that Tail-less Fox accuse

For knitting 'twixt 'em both the fatal Noose:

That curst enchanted Knot of Hand or Heart,

Death and the P— alone cou'd part.

Had honest P—d's lost abortive Bill

Both Houses pass'd, and had the Royal Seal,

With but one short amendment added to't

T' inforce it more, t'had bin without dispute

(Tell me ye shackled Mortals! is't not true?)

The happiest Law that ever England knew:

That those who Natures Freeborn Subjects joyn

In Matrimonial Twist—

Lose all their Rights both Humane and Divine:

(Invent a heavier Sentence he that can!)

At once degraded both from Priest and Man.

Cou'd I believe there was no After-Doom,

But all were endless sleep beyond the Tomb,

As Malmsbury the ravisht Sparks wou'd tell,

The rest o'th' Doctrine I cou'd credit well,

And think a Married Life the onely Hell.

[Page] Then say what punishment beyond despair

Is for those tempting Fiends too much to bear

Who push frail Mortals in and leave them there!

Wou'd the kind Man in black but go quite through,

And those whom he has Marry'd, Bury too;

The Knot h'has ty'd wou'd he but strait undo,

'Twou'd be so very good, and very kind,

We wou'd forget he bound, wou'd he unbind,

And frankly cancel all the Scores behind:

If not, the gentler Hangman shou'd supply

His vacant Cure, for easier 'tis to die

In one half hour, than rackt with Cares and Fears,

For twenty, thirty, forty tedious years

Hang'd up in Marriage chains, and hour by hour

Have some sharp rav'nous Wife the mangl'd Corps devour.

Who in his Wits at least that wou'd not chuse

Before he thrust his Head in that curst Noose,

That Matrimonial Brake, the Bridal Bed,

Whence he ne'er draws his Horns without his Head:

Who wou'd not rather to the World commend,

That brave, that generous, God-like thing—a Friend?

A Friend—there's every thing contain'd i'th' Name,

A Second-self's too narrow—'tis the same:

Two Lutes in one Angelick Consort joyn'd,

Two Bodies mov'd by one harmonious Mind.

[Page] Their tastefull Joys exchang'd, but Joys alone,

No proper Grief by Friends was ever known;

Whilst they each others bear they lose their own.

Pure all their Pleasure, noble and refin'd,

It leaves no guilt, nor stain, nor sting behind:

No dirty base alloy of shame or sin,

Here no unlucky Sex comes stealing in.

Flattery, the greatest plague by Hell design'd

To ruine Mortals, next to Woman-kind:

That noble Link does neither twist nor break,

In Friendships Language things not words they speak.

If one of these can an ill action do

Or suffer ill, the other feels it too.

Two Unisons, so even and so like,

This gently trembles if on that you strike:

Like Leda's I wins, they share the upper Skies;

This Sets in vain while that as bright does Rise.

Rude hands in vain to murder one pretend,

A Friend is still immortal in his Friend.

Kill all or none, stab home, or never touch,

One either is too little, or too much.

Tho' bleeding Life one tott'ring Fort forsakes,

Yet to the next a fair retreat it makes.

Can its untenantable Corps survive,

And still in the Friends Breast is kept alive;

[Page] Strengthens his Arm, how weak so e're it be

For just revenge, and makes him act like thee;

Like thee, thou brave lost Man, who too near had'st learn'd

T' excuse or save thy self, thy Friend concern'd.

Teaches his Muse to stab at every word,

And use his Pen as well as thou thy Sword.

Thus, Ah! in vain we our wild Griefs express,

But can't thy miserable Fate redress.

In vain the World thy worth and thee commends,

Stiles thee the bravest and the best of Friends.

What then remains, but with new rage to fall

On that accursed Sex that caus'd it all.

The Eternal Springs of Murther, Mischief, Strife,

Th' Inquisitors, the Racks, the Plagues of Life.

Lasht worse than Oats, tho' yet their backs are sore,

We'll kindly try to cure old Wounds with more.

If Vengeance can one smarter stroke inspire,

And our too just Resentments spoken higher,

The angry Muse have more of Gall or Fire.

What Place, what Cavern subtle Nature knows,

Does not hard Fate to the curst Sex expose?

Not only they, while here on Earth rebell,

But make as bad disturbance ev'n in Hell.

[Page] Grim Pluto can't his Iron Scepter sway,

But Proserpine must strive to snatch't away,

And make the Ghosts their Soveraign disobey.

The second place in Hell cannot suffice,

By Styx, and all her Kindred in the Skyes:

Aloud she swears that he or her must down,

And as he ravish'd her, she'll seize his Crown.

Euridice, unless the Poets feign,

Call'd in at Hell, and soon return'd again.

Perswade us, while you will her Husbands Lyre,

Did Pity in infernal Breasts inspire,

Who let her fairly to the Skyes retire;

But Ah! the miracles, recorded wrong,

She was redeem'd, not Orpheus by thy Song,

If truth were known, more thanks to her good tongue,

'Twou'd Cerberus outbark, the damn'd outswear,

The Snakes out-hiss, the Fiends no longer dare

Discarge their duty while she loyter'd there;

Their useless pitch-fork now no more avails,

When them with longer Weapons she assails,

And far more sharp, her tongue, her Teeth and Nails.

At length they swore the peace at Pluto's Bench,

On some Court-day against the strapping Wench.

The Secretary did a Warrant draw,

Compleatly sign'd by Pluto's Cloven Paw,

[Page] To send her packing in their own defence,

And for the ease of Hell expell her thence.

With much ado, they won her to repair

To the extreamest bounds of lightsome Air,

But when she found her Husband waiting there;

E're with him she wou'd in Obedience dwell,

She slipt his hand, and back fhe funk to Hell.

There swaggers as before, still breaks her Chain,

The Furies fret, and Pluto raves in vain;

But dares not send her packing for his Ears,

O're him and all his Realm she domineers,

The same their danger, and the same their fears.

Ah poor Belphegor—did the black Divan,

Order thee to indue the Form of Man,

To taste the sweets and bitterness of Life,

And bless and double damn thee in a Wife:

So long a Journey they'd done well to spare,

They might have found thee an Imperia there.

As fit and as compleat for their design,

As false as fickle, and as proud as thine.

Nor have they pester'd Earth and Hell alone,

Since from the Sex Jove scarce secures his Throne,

With fear and awe do's his dread Scepter hold,

For reverence of his own Immortal Scold.

[Page] Her Tongue outdoes his feebler Thunders found

And shakes scar'd Natures universal Round.

His dreadful twy-forckt Bolt not nimbler flies,

Nor Sheets of Flame wide-wafting thro' the Skies,

There is no Lightening like her Hands and Eyes.

Juno does his Illustrious Tresses tear,

Twists her long fingers in his Beard and Hair,

And throws the precious Spoils around the Air.

Hence Bearded Comets thro' the Clouds are hurl'd,

And dreadful hairy Meteors fright the World.

Portending Battle, Murder, every Woe,

Poor Sympathetick Husbands feel below.

No wonder Bacchus does for India scower,

His Step-dames scolding all his drink wou'd sower.

The thirsty Gods their Nectar hide for fear

Her Voice shou'd strike it dead as our small Beer,

And stop their Ears, as they did Treason hear.

O Emblem of a Wife, as Curst as Proud,

As restless, fierce, unconscionable, loud.

What Cyclops wou'd within her hearing venture,

She out-roars Mars as far as Mars did Stentor,

And with her very whispers shakes the Center.

These and a thousand more which stories tell,

The Plagues of groaning Earth, of Heaven and Hell,

I'd honour, dote on, Idolize, commend,

Before the Wretch who ruin'd such a Friend,

[Page] Nor shall she, tho so fain she wou'd escape,

And louder then before cryes out a Rape!

This cursed Satyr, this preposterous Noddy,

Wou'd worse than him that's gone trouble my Body?

All will not do, he holds her tightly to't.

Rail while she will, she cannot stir a Foot.

Is this the Thing for which Lysander dy'd?

This Bubble of ill Nature, Lust and Pride?

Since Fate foresaw she was for Mischief born,

Why was she not expos'd to Want and Scorn?

Why did it not those Weapons from her take,

Which her curst Sex so formidable make?

Well it begun the work, but did not hold:

It gave not Beauty; Ah! why gave it Gold?

Gold, which so high can raise the amorous Fire,

And more than Wine it self inflame Desire.

Gold, which like Thunder breaks, like Lightning flyes,

And pierces deeper far than Sylvia's Eyes.

More fair than the fair Sex to give't it's due,

Far the more lasting Beauty of the two.

Twenty or thirty Years make Women old,

But who finds fault with bent Jacobus Gold?

So sweet it's Air, so charming is it's Smile,

It all the World can with one glance beguile.

Souldiers and Saints, and Politicians spoile.

A Trap by those beneath about i [...] hurl'd,

[Page] First to ensnare, and then destroy the World.

And with it go to further it's Defign,

Those Fiends who watcht it in it's native Mine:

And when they sally to the under-Skys,

They Women leave behind their Deputies.

With some they more with others less intrust,

As they perceive they will to Hell be just,

Or as their stock of Beauty, Wit or Lust.

From two of these is scornful Sylvia free,

As er'e she was from Faith or Chastity;

As over-run with Goatish Lechery.

Ah! had she been but despicably poor,

No Wealth nor Quality to lard the W—

But for a Bottle and a Supper ply'd

At Court or Play-house, Fleet-street or Cheap-side;

The worst she er'e had done, or er'e cou'd do,

Had bin t'have Clap'd, an eager Fool or two;

Then sent 'em home, their Veins and Pockets drain'd,

To boast of what they lost and what they gain'd.

But when the dreadful Comet did aspire

To distant Regions, more sublime and higher,

Near the bright Seat of Elemental Fire;

Her fatal Influences further run,

And more by her betray'd, and more undone:

The more does her Malignity prevail,

The longer down she darts her glittering Golden Tail.

[Page] Whole Nations with one sweep it bears away

It's ghastly Light drives back the sickly Day,

Bodeing Destruction, Mischief and Decay.

But since, poor wretch, she has bin wrong'd before,

Let's use her tenderly, for yet she's sore,

And wish she never may be ravish'd more.

May that fair Reputation you possess,

Ever remain:—Still may the People bless

Your Memory, Madam, as they yet have done,

Stark mad for Love and Admiration run,

And wish, tho they despair t' obtain the grace,

To view a little nearer your fair Face,

And get a Look, a Kiss, oran Embrace.

Supply your Abdicated Drudges room,

Er'e some foul sin your nauseous Corps consume.

The End.

§

[Page]

[Page]

THE Restor'd Maiden-head.

A NEW SATYR AGAINST WOMAN: OCCASION'D By an INFANT, who was the Cause of the Death of my Friend.

Te spitefull Powers (if there can be,

That boast a worse and keener spite than I)

Assist with Malice, and your mighty Aid

My sworn Revenge, and help me Rhime her dead.

Oldham's Satyr.

Mulieri ne credas, ne mortuae quidem.

Horat.

DONDON, Printed for H. Smith. 1691.

THE PREFACE.

[Page]

[Page]

IT wou'd be almost a ridiculous excuse for a Satyr, that it is rough and undress'd, since in my Judgment that is one of the principal Characters of that way of writing. At least, what Spencer says of Love, is true of Grief, that 'tis nothing nice; and the more carelesly the Flowers are strow'd on the Herse of the deceas'd, the more natural and gracefully they'll appear. Were I in a humour to make Excuses, the next shou'd be, for some strokes here, severe enough on the fair Sex; for which they may, if they please, be angry without weighing the high occasion: But those who are so just to do so, I shall be so civil to own I except them out of those General Rules hereafter deliver'd.

[Page] As for those concern'd; if they are angry, I'm glad on't; if they rave, 'tis what I desire; and if they hang themselves, 'twou'd be the best action they ever did in their Lives; and, I believe, the only good one. Friends or Enemies be they, I'll detain 'em no longer in the Preface, but finish that, and fall to work on the main business.

Information about this book

Title statement

The Restor'd maiden-head a new satyr against woman : occasion'd by an infant who was the cause of the death of my friend.

Edition statement

1691

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Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

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Date

2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A57087

ID [STC]

Wing R1177

ID [STC]

ESTC R11476

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

13572848

ID [OCLC]

ocm 13572848

ID [VID]

100390

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Early English books online.

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A57087)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 100390)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 799:6)

Source

— The Restor'd maiden-head a new satyr against woman : occasion'd by an infant who was the cause of the death of my friend., Behn, Aphra, 1640-1689..

Extent

[4], 19 p.

Printed for H. Smith,. Dondon [i.e. London] :: 1691.. (In verse.) (Sometimes ascribed to Aphra Behn. Cf. NUC pre-1956.) (Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.)

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The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines.

Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements).

Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site.