A Posie for Lovers: OR THE Terrestrial Venus Unmaskt. IN FOUR POEMS, VIZ
- I. The Tempest, or Enchanting Lady.
- II. The Luscious Pennance, or the Fasting Lady.
- III. The Feign'd Innocence, or the Jealous and Whining Lady.
- IV. To an Old Gamesome Madam, who Twittingly Askt the Authour, when he Design'd to Settle in the World.
Adde quod insidia sacris a vatibus absunt,
Et facit ad mores ars quo (que) nostra bonos.
Nec nos ambitio, nec nos amor urget habendi:
Contempto colitur lectus, & umbra foro.
Ovid. de Art. Amand. lib. 3.
LONDON, Printed for Thomas Speed, at the Sign of the Three Crowns in Cornhil, near the Royal Exchange. 1694.
To the Little Crooked, yet Sweet and Lovely Rosania.
A Great Pretender to History tells us, That Ann Bulleyn had an Ill Shape, a Yellow Colour, a Gag Tooth, and a Lump under the Chin; but had withal a most Delicious Wit, a Graceful Meen, an Obliging Air, and Good Humour: Now, altho' this may seem but an indifferent Picture to gross and vulgar Discerners, yet it will pass for a Beauty in a true Platonical sense; since internal Comeliness supplies all other Defects. Accordingly the lesser Irregularities of your Frame can be no matter of Reproach, since your Intellectual Graces are so conspicuous to the World. Your Soul in her narrow Lodging (like an honest Dear Friend in a little homely Tenement) is unaccountably entertaining: And your Wit and Perfections may justly put Mankind to the blush, as they do me to a stand, when I consider my Insufficiency to describe them.
I hope, Madam, You will never fail to bear witness before the World, that I have ever been a just (though not blind) Admirer of the good Ones, or (which I hope is all one) the greater part of your Sex: I hate the poynted and licentious Lampoons, that seem levell'd at Womankind without any sort of distinction; and which look more like the Rudeness of Porters, than the just Raillery of a Gentleman: To rake into the Wounds, or expose the Frailties of Ladies, is barbarous and inhumane; and for a Man (because he is of a dull and earthy Complection, or has been cast off by his Mistress for want of agreeable Merit) to rail at the Sex, or blast a Woman of Honour, is abusive and lamentable Cant, and deserves a greater Castigation than that of the Pen. I know, they that are studiously wicked, or vicious upon Principle, are [Page]commonly most severe upon the little Frailties of those, that are designedly vertuous, and generous in their Aims, but want a uicer Regulation of themselves: And how easie is it for any despicable Wretch (that has but an invincible Forehead) to snicker or shake the Head over the little Lapses or Misfortunes of their Betters; and with a solemn Nod, or decorous Management of Fact, to pity Persons of Worth and Reputation.
My Design therefore, in the following Essays, is not in the least to fully the Glories of the Sex, (for why should the sweet Nightingales and innocent Turtles suffer with the obscene Birds?) but to make an agreeable and just Discrimination; and to contribute a little towards the Easiness of Humane Life, the Peace of Families, and generous Freedom and Gaity of Conversation. I do freely own, that Woman, while she glitters in her native Innocence and Charms, is the Fair side of Nature, and prettiest brightest Ornament of the Creation: She is more wellcome than the Morn, more beauteous than the Spring, and more refreshing than the Light: And yet if she Degenerates into an Habitual Exercise of Black and Ill natur'd Passions, (for ashort Fit may be useful and becoming,) she presently falls from her Soveraignty and Graces, loses all her Charms, and the foulest Vizor a Poet can contrive will rather mend, than heighten her Deformity.
The following Lectures were at first hastily composed, for the satisfaction of some private Friends; and are now Published at the earnest desire of some of your Admirers, who are Persons well affected to your Sex: Whether I have transgress'd the Limits of true Decorum, I leave to you Impartially to determine. With all Submission and Gratitude I own your Endearing Favours and Charitable Smiles: And do here lay my self as well as the Hopeless Lausania at your Feet. I am,
Dear Madam, Your Servant and Admirer, Musophilus.
THE TEMPEST, OR, Enchanting Lady.
BOLD are those Men, that with advent'rous Toil
Put forth to Sea, and leaving Native Soyl,
By Gusts and Waves around the Globe are whirl'd,
Like flying Posts, or Carriers of the World;
That with weak Oar advance and force their way
Through th' unfrequented Desarts of the Sea,
The Scaly Monsters of the Deep engage,
And with frail Vessel tempt proud Neptune's Rage:
Yet bolder they, and somewhat more than bold,
That spend their days with an Imperious Scold;
That for their bosom Friend loud Woman have,
More Wild than Storms, more Rav'nous than the Grave:
For Graves are glutted, Storms are reconcil'd,
Waves listen to a Peace, and soon grow mild;
But Shrew, the Monster of the World, do's ne'er
Hearken to Charms, to Reason lends no Ear,
But drives to endless Horrour, and Despair.
Old Sodom's burning Piles, and Noah's Flood,
Joyn'd with all Aegypt's Plagues,
Compar'd to this were the light Wrath of God;
That only doom'd the Wicked, spar'd the Good.
But here the brightest Souls, that e're did wear
Mortality, the common Vengeance share;
The Wise in this black Catalogue we find;
Shrew's the Corruption of Faln Womankind,
The last and greatest Curse on Humane Race design'd.
O the hard Fate of Socrates and Job!
How blest was he, that liv'd alone in Tub?
Happy he spent his silent flowing Days
In Sacred Solitude, and Golden Ease:
Free from Domestick Toil, and Bosom Strife,
And that dire Comfort, call'd a clam'rous Wife.
If ever Mortal merited this Fate,
'Twas Pedro, of all Men the scorn and hate:
Pedro a Tiny Wight, but proudly blind,
In his own thoughts the rarest of his kind,
Plac't all his Bliss in Honourable Gain,
Title and Pelf supply'd the want of Brain:
T' Augment his Store, dull Comfort of his Life,
The Fop at length wou'd needs trump up a Wife;
And, without Nature's call, his Thoughts did bend
To Nuptial Banquets, and a Female Friend.
His wiser Friends for Cloe did appear,
Cloe the Kind, the Vertuous, and the Fair;
But all perswasions on the Sot were spilt,
For he had vow'd to have a Woman gilt.
The Fame of Rich Dorinda reach't his Ear,
All his Devotion was laid out on her;
Fortune she had enough for Woman-kind,
And this had struck th' Aspiring Lubber blind:
True, at first view he gaz'd, as in a Fright,
And shrank, as at some Vision of the Night,
Her very Form did wound his tender Sight.
But Gold, Almighty Gold, (that with its Charms
Translates the Dowdy to the Hero's Arms;
That Consecrates a Dunghil, Haggard Race,
Gilds the Deform'd, and smooths the Wrinkled Face)
Soon brought the Miser to himself agen;
The Brighten'd Marmo soon appear'd a Queen.
In short, with Holy Words the Fiends were joyn'd;
Their Souls and Bodies decently entwin'd:
And sure the World henceforth will be so Civil,
To own a Carnal League 'twixt Witch, and Devil.
Thus far her Tongue lay close in Ambuscade,
And did not Pedro's Noddle yet invade;
That Mist'ry was reserv'd for after-times,
Women in days of Courtship shrowd their Crimes:
And wisely for a while their Faults conceal,
Which days of Wedlock do too soon reveal.
Scarce had the Moon her Second Round began,
When first with Voice she Thunder-struck the Man:
Whether inspir'd with Insolent Disgust,
For want of Bridal Fuel to her Lust,
Or sent by Heav'n to plague the Niggard Clown
For his Enormous Vices, is unknown;
But sure no Mortal Wight below the Sphear,
Did e're so great a Storm of Vengeance bear.
Her Mouth like Bay of Biscay seem'd design'd,
When all things else were Calm, there blew a Wind:
And all the Barristers of Billingsgate
Seem'd but dumb Orators when she did prate.
As when Pandora's Box did open fly,
Plagues and Infection gather'd in the Sky;
So from her Mouth expanded wide did rise
Such Storms, as did the Neighbourhood surprize.
No Bell-Mans Midnight Cry, when Sleep invades,
Nor an Old Madam scolding at her Maids,
Nor grunting Spouse which thro' the House do's bound,
E're rais'd so fell, and terrible a sound.
Th' ill-boding Owls, and Dogs that bark at Moon,
And Cats that scream, when the Love-fit comes on,
Ne're rais'd such grating Echoes to the Ear;
'Twas Test enough to make a Quaker swear.
In vain did Husband Pray and Sue for Peace,
And offer all his Gold for one Days Ease:
With Holy Words t'appease her he wou'd try;
In Holy Phrase she loudly wou'd reply,
And storm his Ears with hallow'd Raillery.
Sometimes She'd Hieroglyphically Preach,
And with Strange, Antick, and Dumb-Figures teach;
The House did then a silent Meeting seem;
She'd turn up Whites, like Prophetess in Dream;
Sit as becalm'd, not moving Hand or Voice,
Till blustring Spirit rising made a Noise:
When rais'd, it grew again as troublesome,
As the fam'd German Pipe, or Devil's Drum:
So Men in Lapland, when Hag proves unkind,
Wait many hours for a fair Gale of Wind.
Of all those Ills, that e're came wing'd from Hell,
This Plague oth' Tongue's the most incurable:
A Magdalene in time may prove a Saint;
But none e're cur'd a Woman prone to cant:
This was Dorinda's Case; and, when grown Old,
She still appear'd true Conscientious Scold:
When half depriv'd of little [...]ense and Wits,
She Rav'd like Woman in Histerick Fits.
She cough'd out Choler; and rail'd on of Course;
The Godly Bedlam grunted out a Curse:
Mump't out her Scorn, and grumbled Holy VVords;
A Cutler's Shop stuck round with glittering Swords
Was not so dangerous as her Empty Mouth;
For Zeal and Grace supplyed the want of Tooth;
With Jaw disarm'd, but edg'd with Godly Spite,
She'd worse than the fam'd Turky Granum bite:
So long, so solemnly she'd scowl, and cant,
Job's Wife compar'd to her, may seem a Saint,
Who did but once, though with a Vengeance, rant:
Like Pliny's Fish, she was profusely hung;
You'd think she wore sharp Teeth within her Tongue.
Thus loudly did She Reign to the last Day,
And punish Pedro with her Tyrannous sway;
Her Wakeful Engine could no silence keep;
Others may Talk, She Scolded in her sleep,
Hag-rid his Soul by Night, and all Day long,
Blasted his Senses with her fiery Tongue:
She lash't the tim'rous Slave without Remorse,
Till the dull Creature groan'd like Trojan Horse;
Then left him bleeding, panting maim'd, and tir'd,
And as she liv'd in Storms, in Storms Expir'd.
Anacreon sure was drunk, when Beauties Charms
Were made, by him, Mysterious Woman's Arms;
For certainly Horns, Talon, Beaks and Wings,
With all th' Artillery of Teeth, and Stings;
Those Weapons which to Birds, and Beasts belong
Are harmless Toys compar'd to Woman's Tongue:
If e're my Fate, unknown to me, decreed
That I must share the Joys oth' Nuptial Bed;
If e're I must, for Love of Womankind,
Freedom and Philosophick Ease resign;
I only beg the ventrous She may prove
A Gentle, Sweet, Good-Natur'd, Houshold Dove:
Tho' She be Crooked, Squint Ey'd, Poor, and Blind,
She's welcome, if she's Pleasant, Calm, and Kind;
I'll know no Ugliness but that oth' Mind:
I could without the least Convulsive pain,
The shock of Honest Poverty sustain,
If she but silent prove, I'll ne'er complain.
I could methinks,
For my Dear, tender Spouse, as yet unknown,
Part with a mangled Limb, without a Groan:
I could without the least reluctant fear
The voice of Thunder and of Earthquakes bear,
And face the grimmest Death without Despair.
But to be doom'd to loud Domestick Strife,
To that Rank Blessing, call'd a Clam'rous Wife, (of Life;
That with her cant and tears sow'rs the whole draught
To fall a dull, unpittyed Sacrifice,
To a false Woman's Scorn, and dreadful Voyce;
Just Heavens forbear, as you are kind and good,
'Tis too severe a Test for Flesh and Blood:
'Tis Gibbet, Vultur, Wheel, and Rowling-Stone,
All the Ten Persecutions cramm'd in one.
'Tis such a signal, and Transcendent Curse,
That nothing, but Damnation, can be worse.
THE Luscious Pennance: OR The Fasting Lady.
LONG had Lausania, flush't with hot desire,
Been the Pastime of many a Knight and 'Squire;
Long had she in their presence wish't and sigh'd,
Look't eagerly, and been as oft deni'd:
Next, with a moving Grace, she did relate
Her handsom Fortune, Alamode Estate,
Her beaut'ous Jewels, tempting Gold and Plate.
These scorn'd to help her Importuning Wants,
She seem'd to List her self among the Saints;
Many long hours distressed she wou'd dwell
In Lonely Closet, her Disconsolate Cell,
(Well stor'd with Biskets, Wine, and Godly Books)
And thence peep forth with Comfortable Looks;
Thus a long while she wantonly wou'd pray,
Fast sweetly, and indulge it ev'ry day.
This done, to th' rame sleek Chaplain she complain'd,
With begging look; but was by him disdain'd:
He scorn'd to soil a Consecrated Hand.
Unhappy state of poor afflicted Maids!
When vig'rous warmth, or gay desire invades!
How did Lausania try with wearied Hands
T' Enrich her Face, as Farmers do their Lands;
And dung with Paint her wrinkl'd, shrivel'd Brow,
A Barren Soil, where Beauty ne'er must grow?
Much better; had she drain'd the wanton Flood,
Or with Infusions chill'd her sulph'rous Blood;
She shou'd have shunn'd all Hot provoking Meat,
And laid aside cold Tea, and Chocolate;
Fasted and pray'd in earnest all day long,
And cool'd at once her Liver, and her Tongue;
Happy she might have been had this been done;
And out of her the Devil of Lust had gone.
Now, thanks to her dear self, alone she's left,
Of Consolation, as of Charms, bereft:
The Finger-butt of Grooms; abhor'd, and fear'd,
Like Blazing Star, or Woman with a Beard.
Her old Despair is now to Madness grown,
She bites each Man she meets, raves up and down,
The celebrated Scold of all the Town.
And she, whose Talent 'twas to court and woo,
Does all Mankind with Raillery pursue.
The silliness of Man she does expose,
And vows she'd sooner take a Dog for Spouse,
Her am'rous Shock, or darling Monkey chuse.
And sure a fitter Match was never seen;
A Puss with Top-knot wedded to La Chien.
Blot of her Sex! All o'er deformed and foul!
Her Body's a true Emblem of her Soul:
Lansania! Thy Graces shall out-shine
The glorious Pranks of much fam'd Messaline:
What she once acted, thou in though hast done;
May all her Praise and Merit be thy own.
Fair Rosamond, Jane Shore, and all the Fry
Of such rare Brittish Worthies yeild to thee;
Their Vice, were in a fair form Enshrin'd;
But thou art blasted both in Shape and Mind.
Thou art not fit for Nunnery; at best
Art not a Bait for an Hot blooded Priest:
He's curst that with thee in a Church shall stand,
And pennance do with Woman in his Hand.
Without a Blot I should not write thy Name,
Nor without Scorn thy Pedigree proclaim:
Thy Nose from Mother Shipton speaks thy Race,
And stands like Pallisadoe on thy Face;
As if 'twere meant from thy Embrace to fright
Mankind, If ever Incubus by Night
On thy Foul Body should design a Rape,
He ought t'assume some new Enormous Shape;
Else with thy uglier Form, and equal Soul,
Thou wilt o'er-match the poor Infe [...]nal Fool.
The Northern Bear, that did a Maid compress,
Had fled at sight of thy Tremendous Face;
Pygmalion too had shunn'd thy loath'd Embrace.
Wast thou but landed on the Eastern Shore,
Thy very Looks wou'd all Arabia sowr;
And had the Pontick King but met thy Breath,
Tho' Poyson-proof, he might have suck't in Death.
Whenever Nymph, whom Thought could never stain,
Shall be assaulted by some lustful Swain,
Whom Thoughts of Hell or Gibbet ne'er could scar;
O that thy monstrous Image but appear!
The sight would dash his villanous Intent,
And strike the insulting Letcher impotent.
Hence, to some rude wild Indian Climate fly,
Where Men to Devils do Allegiance pay,
There some Respect perhaps may light on thee.
Fly to some Barbarous Coast, to Affrick's Sand;
Thou hast no hopes in any Christian Land;
Unless some Puny, Cast-off, Tawdry Fool,
The Sport of Woman-kind, and Nature's Tool,
Grow desperate, and in sad pensive Case
Wink hard, and boldly rush to thy Embrace.
Like moody Saul, who, thrown from all his Bliss,
Rent from all Hope, and sunk into Distress,
At Endor Courted an Infernal Bitch,
And made his last Appeal unto a Witch.
Pardon ye Nymphs of a Superior Sphear,
Whom shortly I'll accost with awful Fear:
I love your Sex; and at your Shrines adore,
And next to Heav'ns, your Blessings I implore.
I feel your Glitt'ring Charms, partake your Joys,
And wish you Blest with pretty Girls and Boys.
In all your Toils I bear a mournful part,
And each sad Accent strikes my Tender Heart:
When I hear a forsaken Virgin's Cries,
My Mother's Softness comes into my Eyes;
Alas! poor Soul, look how she pines and dies.
When a Young Widow by the Grave do's stand
Of her Departed Dear; I catch her Hand,
And willing am the fading Bloom to save;
And fear least she should drop into the Grave.
At Dido's Fate I've often wept, and bled;
Nor can I Patient Grisle's Story read
Without a Sigh; Nay I could never blame
Th' uncommon Ardours of th' Ephesian Dame.
Those Errors, which from gen'rous Love proceed,
To me but small Apology can need:
While others Laugh or Rail, I beat my Breast;
I cannot turn Misfortunes into Jest;
But count 'em Spots of Humane Race, that dare
Blaspheme the Glorious Frailties of the Fair.
Yet if th' Incarnate Angels choose to fall;
If their Love sowrs to Vanity and Gall,
Their Pangs and Throws without concern I see;
All such proud She's Lausanias are to me.
And may Lausania's blasted Pride and Scorn
A lasting Terrour prove to Nymphs unborn.
O that she could beg Pardon and Relent:
But that's too much to hope: If she Repent,
Furies will put on Mourning, Hell was ne'er
So cheated, since the Death of R—r.
THE Feign'd Innocence: OR The Jealous and Whining Lady.
Horatio a Person of Honour, of a Free but Vertuous Temper, Marries Lucinda; a Lady of good Descent and Celebrated Beauty, but a little too Affected and Demure: After the satisfactory Enjoyment of a few Years in her much lov'd Conversation, be Deserts her Bed, and denies all Nuptial Communion with her, upon too apparent Evidence of her Dishonourable Conduct. After some Daies of Absence, the now Distressed Lucinda sends him this Complaining Epistle.
OFT have I in my Tender Non-age cry'd
And with a bleeding Heart sate down and sigh'd,
At the sad Story of Octavia's Fate,
Deserted by her Antony the Great:
Tho' he with sullen brow from her withdrew,
And wing'd with Charms to Cleopatra flew,
Urg'd by the Fates against Octavia's Will,
Yet She, kind She, Lov'd and Enjoy'd him still:
(For Lovers live not where they sigh and move,
But where their Passion's fixt, and where they Love.)
Her Fortune chang'd by Cleopatra's Face,
She bore th' Affliction with a moving Grace;
Lov'd on with equal constant Strains, and ne'er
Spoke his Dear Name without a Hymn or Tear:
In all the Souldiers Toyls she bore a part,
Kept his Surviving Image in her Heart:
Astrea could not hold the Scales more ev'n;
She'd ne'er recal a Love once Seal'd in Heav'n.
Sometimes indeed she wrung her hands and cry'd,
Her pretty Children weeping by her side;
Into Complaints and Transports she would fly,
Call the Fates Cruel, but not Antony:
Her glowing Breast did with kind Wishes burn,
And Love within still whisper'd he'd return.
But Antony Perfidious and Unkind,
With a Steel'd Heart, and a False Perjur'd Mind,
Slighted her gen'rous Faith, her boding Fears,
Her Melting Wishes, and endearing Prayers;
And when from her cold Solitary home
With longing Arms she was to Athens come
To meet lier Lord, he forc't her back to Rome.
I little thought,
When I at first to your Embrace did run,
Too Fond alass! And Proud to be undone!
That my Malignant Stars would thus combine;
That poor Octavia's Fortune should be mine.
I languishing and hoping Innocence
Took all your Words for Oracle and Sense:
When you first vow'd I secretly comply'd,
Tho' by fond custom urg'd I oft deny'd:
My Passion was too strong to be conceal'd,
Each treacherous Glance the Mystery reveal'd:
Tho' my officious Tongue did act its part,
My Looks still spake the Language of my Heart:
Somewhat I felt that did strange Heats inspire,
My Blood was kindled, and my Soul took fire:
I thrust you from me, flew from your Embrace;
Yet wore Love's kinder Signal in my Face:
I bid you go, and chid at your Delay,
But as you went with Smiles I bid you stay:
When e're you spake or look't my Heart was mov'd,
And tho' I frown'd and scorn'd, yet still I lov'd.
I scarcely could the pleasing Shock sustain,
You look't like Cupid grown up to a Man:
You seem'd all o'er Intelligence and Flame,
Love was your Centre, your Circumference Fame.
I prais'd (Ah! those soft Hours I can't forget)
Your Form and Meen, but above all your Wit;
When I was most displeas'd, I was most true,
To every Object blind and deaf but you:
When e'er I wak't, or laid me down in Bed,
Horatio's Lovely Image by me play'd:
When I alone did walk, you close did stand,
Methought I felt you snatch and kiss my Hand:
And then such kind and pretty things you said,
Would from a Death-Bed raise a drooping Maid:
Thus for a while my soft and yeilding Breast
Was with transporting Images possest;
My Virgin Fears with warm Affection strove,
Till at last blushing I confest my Love.
But Oh! With what a sudden furious Joy
You did your Lips, and innocent Arms employ!
You melting spake, then panting stood amaz'd,
And without breach of Honour clasp't, and gaz'd:
You softly press't me, and sweet Kisses join'd,
Our very Souls did meet, and were entwin'd:
You vow'd by all the Witnesses above,
Nothing should e'er allay so pure a Love:
In your kind loving Arms you held me fast,
And said we ne'er should part while Life did last;
That nothing but the unkind Destinies
Should e'er divide our Arms, our Lips, and Eyes;
Nothing but Death should tear us from our Joys.
But Ah! how dim and like a Winter Sun,
In a few Years is your Lucinda grown?
How chang'd from her, whose charming Grace and Mien
You once so much admir'd, and thought Divine?
No Lustre streams from her forgotten Face;
No sweet Endearments flow from her Embrace:
No, Leonora now has all the Charms;
And cold Lucinda's banisht from your Arms:
She's the new dazling Object you adore,
And pale Lucinda's Right must be no more.
Now Sighs alone employ my fainting Breath;
I no Companions have but Care and Death:
In a dark Cell I pensive sit and moan,
Since you, and all the Bribes of Life are gone:
Or if I walk to th' Melancholly Groves,
The former Scenes of our once envi'd Loves,
Methink the Birds like silent Mourners gaze,
Or with sad Notes falute me as I pass:
Nothing from you arrives to ease my Grief,
Not one kind Letter comes to my relief:
The kindest Words cannot your Heart encline;
Sure ther's no Balm for any Wound like mine.
Just Heav'n! What have I merited or done,
To be thus sentenc't to be left alone?
Chast I have been as e're Penelope,
Or any Grecian Dame was fam'd to be;
Or as Lavina was before she went
To the wanton Baths with innocent intent:
If e're I have prophan'd our Nuptial Bed
With one Adulterous glance; if e'er I did
Cherish one Wish obscene, or Thought untrue
Since the first time I mingled Arms with you;
May Midnight Wolves tear out my bleeding Heart,
May I dye piecemeal, or feell all the smart
Grim Tyrants e'er design'd; may I live on
To a long dreadful space, yet lov'd by none:
Then die a branded, unlamented Slave,
Hiss't through the World, and spurn'd into my Grave.
Why will you then ingulph your self in ill?
Why should you thus a Heart-sick Woman kill?
How can you thus with bleeding Honour rove,
And wildly Revel in unlawful Love?
Where this sad Change will end I can't foretell;
But my poor Soul divines it can't be well:
Since no Successful Fate, or Peaceful End
The Dissolute Hero's Life did e'er attend:
Though for a while grown obstinate in Sin,
He may out-face the Monitor within;
Yet at the length dark and ill-boding Fears
Haunt and torment him wheresoe'er he steers.
Remembrance of past Crimes his Soul does fright
By Day, and Hag-ride all his Dreams by Night;
And how shall he Heav'ns mighty Vengeance stem,
Who cannot bear its Image in a Dream?
Each Wind or Eccho his sick Fancy wounds,
And makes his Spirits shoot beyond all bounds:
The noise of Thunder makes him start and rave;
Seems a shrill Ghost to call him to his Grave;
And all the Charms of Musick, Friends, and Wine
Cannot allay the storm he feels within:
In his own Breast are plac't in open View
Tribunal, Witness, Judge and Sentence too:
And thus, though late, he will confess with shame
What 'tis to violate the Nuptial Flame;
What 'tis to wrong a spotless Womans Fame.
Pardon this Passion of a Heart that bleeds;
Pardon this freedom which from Love proceeds.
My Soul already hastens to relent;
Forgive me, and I'll teach thee to repent:
I'll ne're accuse thee more; No, first I'll lay
The blame on Fate, or any thing but thee.
But sure the Injuries to me are giv'n,
Are big enough to shake a Saint in Heav'n:
O my vast wrongs! Pity ye Pow'rs above
My injur'd Faith, and my neglected Love:
Help my poor tott'ring Bark; Conduct me o'er,
For pale Lucinda shortly is no more.
To th' Golden Strand, and Everlasting Shore.
Farewell my much abus'd, and much Lov'd Lord!
Ah! that I live to speak the dreadful Word!
The Blessings of this Life wait on you still,
When I am lodg'd in Dust, or some cold Cell:
I, like a plunder'd Traveller, stript and bare,
Expos'd to horrid Damps, and blasting Air,
Lie unregarded here without Relief,
Feel nought but want, and nothing tast but grief:
The Doleful Tale of Wretched Niobe,
Was sure some Dream, or Prophesie of me;
For I with Midnight fears am almost grown
As stiff, as cold, and sensless as a Stone.
Ah, that kind Heav'n wou'd in soft sounds impart
And bear my Sorrows to your yielding heart;
Or that I might but in your presence die;
And there begin my Immortality:
With willing Arms I'd hang upon your Knees;
Breath out my Soul in a dear Rapturous Kiss:
But sure the World will think my Wrongs but small,
When one kind parting Kifs attones for all.
Once more Dear Object of my Soul farewell:
To thee who did'st— To thee who dos't excell,
Once more, I bid adieu.
Yet sure e'er long, ev'n while time forwards rowls,
Before the general Rendezvouze of Souls,
We shall again Embrace, again Appear
All Love, and with a Form more bright and clear,
Like Dying Martyrs Kind, and like an Angel Fair.
TO AN Old Gamesome Madam, Who Twittingly Ask't the AUTHOUR When he Design'd To Settle in the World.
MAdam, I must not from my Reason fly
With the Dull World's Opinions to comply;
Nor can I think a Woman's Excellence
Consists in Noyse, fine Dress, and want of Sense:
The Answer's near at hand; when I can tame
Those Rising Passions which divide my Frame,
And stem the Sallies of undue desire,
Then shall I to true Settlement Aspire:
For Settlement supposes Calm and Ease;
Ev'n Heav'n consists in Temper, not in place.
Angels are settled, while abroad they fly,
And with swift Wings cut the soft yielding Sky:
And, tho' coarse Vulgar Souls may count it strange,
They rest at their Bright Home, when wide they range.
But he's ne'er settled that feels bosom pains,
Tho' ty'd at home by Matrimonial Chains:
Nor can that Mortal a fix'd State e're find;
That wears a Restless and Aspiring Mind:
Else, Men in Bedlam may be said to have
A Settled Blest Condition while they Rave.
Happy's that Man, whose Soul is not confin'd
To Time or Place; who owns a free-born mind:
Who Blest with Friends, and Intellectual Peace,
Is Nobly Active, and yet lives at Ease.
That Loves, but do's not Fear a Lady's Eye,
Feels the sweet Wound, but bravely scorns to dye.
While Lab'rers rest and Guardian Angels wake,
Of Nature's VVorks he can a Prospect take:
And while he treads the quiet, thoughtful round,
Eternity alone his thoughts can bound:
VVhile others idle sit at home, abroad
He can be Entertain'd, and well Employ'd;
Unmov'd be'll be, ev'n while he seems to roam,
And where he meets his Friend, he is at home.
But Madam, can you talk of Settlement,
Whom neither God, nor Man could e'er content?
Of Wealth you've had, of Husbands too good Store;
Thousands oth' one, and of the other four;
And yet you daily pray, and pine for more.
Glutted with Humane kind, again you crave,
Nor can you settled be, 'till lodg'd in Grave.
Your gloting Eyes more wantonness reflect,
Than any high-fed Concubine can act:
Your wrigling Soul by working frets its way,
Thro' Flesh and Blood, and doe's it self betray.
Your restless Thoughts from Man to Man still rowl;
A B essed Symptome of a Settled Soul.
When dreadful Fourscore Years are past and gone,
When breath grows short, and the last hour draws on;
'Tis wondrous pretty in Love's Toils t' Engage,
And to be Marri'd in a good Old Age:
Wedlock which Youth Adorns, in you's a Sin:
Yet you will on; as if you did design,
By your Stale, wither'd Matrimonial Face,
To bring the Dear Lov'd Thing into Disgrace.
For shame, Old Chronicle, no longer rove
In the wild Mystick Maze of Lawless Love:
Hence, and that Venerable Limber lay
In some dark Vault unknown to Light and Day:
There sigh the short Remains of Life away.
There Mourn, confess, tell o're the num'rous Scroll,
Ransack each secret Corner of your Soul.
Shake, turn it outward, rub out ev'ry stain;
Let your Repentance be oth' Nobler strain.
And when your Funeral Pomp, and Rites are paid,
O'er Tomb let your Effigies be display'd,
And do some good, at least when you are dead.
Your Looks perhaps may to Devotion call;
Like Picture of Old Time upon a Wall.
FINIS.
Books Printed for, and Sold by Thomas Speed, at the Three Crowns near the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1694.
- THE Loyal and Impartial Satyrist: Containing Eight Miscellany Poems. Price 6 d.
- Thirty Six Sermons, viz. 10 Ad Aulam. 6 A Clerum. 6 Ad Magistratum. 8 Ad Populum. With a large Preface. By the Right Reverend Father in God, Robert Sanderson, late Lord Bishop of Lincoln. The Eighth Edition, corrected and amended. Whereunto is now added the Life of the Reverend and Learned Author. Written by Isaac Walton Folio. Price 15 s.
- A Sermon at the Funeral of the Reverend Mr. Thomas Grey, late Vicar of Dedham in Essex; preach'd in the Parish-Church of Dedham, Feb. 2. 1691. With a short Account of his Life. By Joseph Powell. A.M. Rector of St. Mary on the Wall, in Colchester. Price 6 d.
- An Anatomy of Atheisme: A Poem by a Person of Quality. Price Six pence.
- Conversation in Heaven: Being Devotions; consisting of Meditations and Prayers, on several considerable Subjects in Practical Divinity. Written for the Raising the Decay'd Spirit of Piety. By Lawrence Smith, LL. D. Fellow of St. John's Colledge in Oxford, 12mo. Price Two Shillings.
- Lusus Amatotius: Sive Musaei Poema de Herone & Leandro, E Graec à in Latinam Linguam Tranllatum. Cui Aliae (tres scilicet) accedunt Nugae Poeticae. Authore C. B. è Coll. Di Jo. Bapt. Soc. 4o Price 6 d.
- Tachygraphy: The most Exact and Compendious Method of Short and Swift Writing, that hath ever yet been published by any. Composed by Thomas Shelton, Author and Professor of the said Art. Approved by both the Universities, 8o. Price 4 s.
- Zeiglographia: Or, a New Art of Short-Writing, never before published; more Easie, Exact, Short, and Speedy than any heretofore. Invented and Composed by Thomas Shelton, Author and Teacher of the said Art. Allowed by Authority, 8o. Price one Shilling.