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[seat."

The sons of happy punks, the pandar's heir,
Are privileged to sit in triumph there,
To clap the first, and rule the theatre.
Up to the galleries, for shame, retreat;
For, by the Roscian law, the poor can claim no
Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed
The man, that poll'd but twelve-pence for his head?
Who ever nam'd a poor man for his heir,
Or call'd him to assist the judging chair?
The poor were wise, who, by the rich opprest,
Withdrew, and sought a sacred place of rest.
Once they did well, to free themselves from scorn;
But had done better never to return.
Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie

Plung'd in the depth of helpless poverty.

Codrus had but one bed, so short to boot, That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out: His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers grac'd, Beneath them was his trusty tankard plac'd: And, to support this noble plate, there lay A bending Chiron cast from honest clay : His few Greek books a rotten chest contain'd; Whose covers much of mouldiness complain'd: Where mice and rats devour'd poetic bread; And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed. "Tis true, poor Codrus nothing had to boast, And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost: Begg'd naked through the streets of wealthy Rome; And found not one to feed, or take him home. But if the palace of Arturius burn,

mourn;

At Rome 'tis worse; where house-rent by the year, The nobles change their clothes, the matrons
And servants' bellies cost so devilish dear;
And tavern-bills run high for hungry cheer.
To drink or eat in earthen-ware we scorn,
Which cheaply country-cupboards does adorn:
And coarse blue hoods on holidays are worn.
Some distant parts of Italy are known,
Where none but only dead men wear a gown:
On theatres of turf, in homely state,
Old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate:
The same rude song returns upon the crowd,
And, by tradition, is for wit allow'd.

[frights.

The mimic yearly gives the same delights;
And in the mother's arms the clownish infant
Their habits (undistinguish'd by degree)
Are plain alike; the same simplicity,
Both on the stage, and in the pit, you see.
In his white cloak the magistrate appears;
The country-bumkin the same livery wears.
But here, attir'd, beyond our purse we go,
For useless ornament and flaunting show:
We take on trust, in purple robes to shine;
And, poor, are yet ambitious to be fine.
This is a common vice, though all things here
Are sold, aud sold unconscionably dear.
What will you give that Cossus may but view
Your face, and in the crowd distinguish you;
May take your incense like a gracious god,
And answer only with a civil nod?

To please our patrons, in this vicious age,
We make our entrance by the favourite page:
Shave his first down, and when he pulls his hair,
The consecrated locks to temples bear:
Pay tributary cracknels, which he sells,
And, with our offerings, help to raise his vails.
Who fears in country-towns a house's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall?
But we inhabit a weak city here;
Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear:
And 'tis the village-mason's daily calling,
To keep the world's metropolis from falling,
To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close;
And, for one night, secure his lord's repose.
At Cuma we can sleep quite round the year,
Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear;
While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly,
And the pale citizens for buckets cry.
Thy neighbour has remov'd his wretched store
(Few bands will rid the lumber of the poor).
Thy own third story smokes, while thou, supine,
Art årench'd in fumes of undigested wine.
For if the lowest floors already burn,
Cock-loft and garrets soon will take the turn;
Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,
Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled,

The city-pretor will no pleadings hear;
The very name of fire we hate and fear:
And look aghast, as if the Gauls were here.
While yet it burns, th' officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and some to bring supplies:
One sends him marble to rebuild, and one
With naked statues of the Parian stone,
The work of Polyclete, that seem to live;
While others images for altars give;
One books and skreens, and Pallas to the breast;
Another bags of gold, and he gives best.
Childless Arturius, vastly rich before,
Thus by his losses multiplies his store:
Suspected for accomplice to the fire,
That burnt his palace but to build it higher,

But, could you be content to bid adieu
To the dear play-house, and the players too:
Sweet country-seats are purchas'd every where,
With lands and gardens, at less price than here
You hire a darksome dog-hole by the year.
A small convenience decently prepar'd,
A shallow well that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easy crystal streams around,
And waters all the pretty spot of ground.
There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate,
And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat:
'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground
In which a lizard may, at least, turn round.

'Tis frequent, here, for want of sleep to die; Which fumes of undigested feasts deny; And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs fry.

What house secure from noise the poor can keep,
When ev'n the rich can scarce afford to sleep;
So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome;
And hence the sources of diseases come,
The drover who his fellow-drover meets
In narrow passages of winding streets;
The waggoners that curse their standing teams,
Would wake ev'n drowsy Drusius from his dreams.
And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,
But sweep above our heads, and make their way;
In lofty litters borne, and read and write,
Or sleep at ease: the shutters make it night.
Yet still be reaches first the public place:
The press before him stops the client's pace.
The crowd that follows crush his panting sides,
And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.
One elbows him, one justles in the shoal:
"A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole:
Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes;
And some rogue-soldier, with his hob-nail'd shoes,
Indents his legs behind in bloody rows,

See with what smoke our doles we celebrate: A hundred guests, invited, walk in state:

[wait. A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens, Huge pans the wretches on their heads must bear, Which scarce gigantic Corbulo could rear: Yet they must walk upright beneath the load; Nay, run, and running blow the sparkling flames abroad :

Their coats, from botching newly bought, are torn.
Unwieldy timber-trees in waggons borne,
Stretch'd at their length, beyond their carriage lie;
That nod, and threaten ruin from on high.
For, should their axle break, its overthrow
Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below:
Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could
know:

Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcase would remain:
But a mash'd heap, a hotchpotch of the slain.
One vast destruction; not the soul alone,
But bodies, like the soul, visibly are flown.
Meantime, unknowing of their fellows' fate,
The servants wash the platter, scour the plate,
Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay
The rubbers, and the bathing sheets display;
And oil them first; and each is handy in his way.
But he, for whom this busy care they take,
Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake:
Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face;
New to the horrours of that uncouth place;
His passage begs with unregarded prayer:
And wants two farthings to discharge his fare.
Return we to the dangers of the night;
And, first, behold our houses' dreadful height:
From whence come broken potsherds tumbling
down;

And leaky ware, from garret-windows thrown: Well may they break our heads, and mark the flinty stone.

'Tis want of sense to sup abroad too late;
Unless thou first hast settled thy estate.
As many fates attend thy steps to meet,
As there are waking windows in the street.
Bless the good gods, and think thy chance is rare
To have a pisspot only for thy share.
The scouring drunkard, if he does not fight
Before his bed-time, takes no rest that night:
Passing the tedious hours in greater pain
Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain.
'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal,
A bully cannot sleep without a brawl:

Yet, though his youthful blood be fir'd with wine,
He wants not wit the danger to decline:
Is cautious to avoid the coach and six,
And on the lacquies will no quarrel fix.
His train of flambeaux, and embroider'd coat,
May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot.
But me, who must by moonlight homeward bend,
Or lighted only with a candle's end,
Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where
He only cudgels, and I only bear.

He stands, and bids me stand: I must abide ;
For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside. [cries,
"Where did you whet your knife to night," he
"And shred the leeks that in your stomach rise?
Whose windy beans have stuft your guts, and where
Have your black thumbs been dipt in vinegar?
With what companion cobbler have you fed,
On old ox-cheeks, or he-goat's tougher head?
What, are you dumb? Quick with your answer,
Before my foot salutes you with a kick.

[quick,

Say, in what nasty cellar under ground, [found?"
Or what church-porch, your rogueship may be
Answer, or answer not, 'tis all the same:
He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame.
Before the bar, for beating him you come;
This is a poor man's liberty in Rome.
You beg his pardon; happy to retreat
With some remaining teeth, to chew your meat.
Nor is this all; for when retir'd, you think
To sleep securely; when the candles wink,
When every door with iron-chains is barr'd,
And roaring taverns are no longer heard;
The ruffian-robbers by no justice aw'd,
And unpaid cut-throat soldiers, are abroad,
Those venal souls, who, harden'd in each ill,
To save complaints and persecution, kill.
Chas'd from their woods and bogs, the padders come
To this vast city, as their native home;
To live at ease, and safely skulk in Rome.
The forge in fetters only is employ'd;
Our iron-mines exhausted and destroy'd
In shackles; for these villains scarce allow
Goads for the teams, and plough-shares for the
Oh, happy ages of our ancestors, [plough.
Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers!
One jail did all their criminals restrain;
Which now the walls of Rome can scarce contain.
More I could say, more causes I could show
For my departure; but the Sun is low:
The waggoner grows weary of my stay;
And whips his horses forwards on their way.
Farewell; and when, like me, o'erwhelm'd with
You to your own Aquinum shall repair,
To take a mouthful of sweet country-air,
Be mindful of your friend; and send me word,
What joys your fountains and cool shades afford:
Then, to assist your satires, I will come;
And add new venom when you write of Rome.

them.

THE SIXTH SATIRE OF

JUVENAL.

THE ARGUMENT.

[care,

How

THIS satire, of almost double length to any of the rest, is a bitter invective against the fair sex. It is, indeed, a common-place, from whence all the moderns have notoriously stolen their sharpest railleries. In his other satires, the poet has only glanced on some particular woBut men, and generally scourged the men. this he reserved wholly for the ladies. they had offended him, I know not: but upon the whole matter, he is not to be excused for imputing to all, the vices of some few amongst Neither was it generously done of him, to attack the weakest as well as the fairest part of the creation: neither do I know what moral he could reasonably draw from it. It could not be to avoid the whole sex, if all had been true which he alleges against them: for that had been to put an end to human-kind. And to bid us beware of their artifices, is a kind of silent acknowledgment, that they have more wit than men which turns the satire upon us, and particularly upon the poet; who thereby makes a compliment, where he meant a libel. If he in

:

tended only to exercise his wit, he has forfeited his judgment, by making the one half of his readers his mortal enemies: and, amongst the men, all the happy lovers, by their own experience, will disprove his accusations. The whole world must allow this to be the wittiest of his satires; and truly he had need of all his parts, to maintain with so much violence so unjust a charge I am satisfied he will bring but few over to his opinion: and on that consideration chiefly I ventured to translate him. Though there wanted not another reason, which was, that no one else would undertake it: at least, sir C. S. who could have done more right to the author, after a long delay, at length absolutely refused so ungrateful an employment: and every one will grant, that the work must have been imperfect and lame, if it had appeared without one of the principal members belonging to it. Let the poet therefore bear the blame of his own invention; and let me satisfy the world, that I am not of his opinion. Whatever his Roman ladies were, the English are free from all his imputations. They will read with wonder and abhorrence the vices of an age, which was the most infamous of any on record. They will bless themselves when they behold those examples, related of Domitian's time they will give back to antiquity those monsters it produced: and believe with reason, that the species of those women is extinguished; or at least, that they were never here propagated. I may safely therefore proceed to the argument of a satire, which is no way relating to them and first observe, that my author makes their lust the most heroic of their vices: the rest are in a manner but digression. He skims them over; but he dwells on this: when he seems to have taken his last leave of it, on the sudden he returns to it: it is one branch of it in Hippia, another in Messalina, but lust is the main body of the tree. He begins with this text in the first line, and takes it up with intermissions to the end of the chapter. Every vice is a loader, but that's a ten. The fillers, or intermediate parts, are their revenge; their contrivances of secret crimes; their arts to hide them; their wit to excuse them; and their impudence to own them, when they can no longer be kept secret. Then the persons to whom they are most addicted; and on whom they commonly bestow the last favours: as stage- layers, fiddlers, singing-boys, and fencers. These who pass for chaste amongst them, are not really so; but only, for their vast dowries, are rather suffered than loved by their own husbands. That they are imperious, domineering, scolding wives set up for learning and criticism in poetry; but are false judges. Love to speak Greek (which was then the fashionable tongue, as the French is now with us). That they plead causes at the bar, and play prizes at the beargarden. That they are gossips and newsmongers: wrangle with their neighbours abroad, and beat their servants at home. That they lie in for new faces once a month, are sluttish with their husbands in private; and paint and dress in public for their lovers. That they deal 'with Jews, diviners, and fortune-tellers: learn the arts of miscarrying, and barrenness. Buy

children, and produce them for their own. Murder their husbands' sons, if they stand in their way to his estate and make their adol terers his heirs. From hence the poet proceeds to show the occasion of all these vices, their original, and how they were introduced in Rome, by peace, wealth, and luxury. In conclusion, if we will take the word of our malicious author, bad women are the general standing rule and the good, but some few excep tions to it.

In "aturn's reign, at Nature's early birth,
There was that thing call'd Chastity on Earth;
When in a narrow cave, their common shade,
The sheep, the shepherds, and their gods were laid:
When reeds and leaves, and hides of beasts were
spre

By mountain-housewives for their homely bed,
And mossy pillows rais'd, for the rude husband's
Unlike the niceness of our modern dames [head
(Affected nymphs with new-affected names):
The Cynthias and the Lesbias of our years,
Who for a sparrow's death dissolve in tears.
Those first unpolish'd matrons, big and bold,
Gave suck to infants of gigantic mould;
Rough as their savage lords who rang'd the wood,
And, fat with acorns, belch'd their windy food.
For when the world was buxom, fresh, and

young,

Her sons were undebauch'd, and therefore strong;
And whether born in kindly beds of earth,
Or struggling from the teeming oaks to birth,
Or from what other atoms they begun,
Some thin remains of chastity appear'd,
No sires they had, or, if a sire, the Sun.
Ev'n under Jove, but Jove without a beard;
Before the servile Greeks had learnt to swear
By heads of kings; while yet the bounteous year
Her common fruits in open plains expos'd,
Ere thieves were fear'd, or gardens were enclos'd.
At length, uneasy, Justice upwards flew,
And both the sisters to the stars withdrew;
From that old era whoring did begin,
So venerably ancient is the sin.
Adulterers next invade the nuptial state,
And marriage-beds creak'd with a foreign weight;
All other ills did iron times adorn,
But whores and silver in one age were born.
Is this an age to buckle with a bride?
Yet thou, they say, for marriage dost provide:
They say thy hair the curling art is taught,
The wedding-ring perhaps already bought:
A sober man, like thee, to change his life!
What fury would possess thee with a wife?
Art thou of every other death bereft,
No knife, no ratsbane, no kind halter left?
(For every noose compar'd to her's is cheap):
Is there no city-bridge from whence to leap?
Would'st thou become her drudge, who dost enjoy
A better sort of bedfellow, thy boy?
He keeps thee not awake with nightly brawls,
Nor with a begg'd reward thy pleasure palls;
Nor with insatiate heavings calls for more,
When all thy spirits were drain'd out before.
But still Ursidius courts the marriage-bait,
Longs for a son, to settle his estate,
Would gladly grease the rich old batchelor.
And takes no gifts, though every gaping heir

What revolution can appear so strange,
As such a leacher, such a life to change?
A rank, notorious horemaster, to choose
To thrust his neck into the marriage-nooŝe?
He who so often in a dreadful fright

Had in a coffer 'scap'd the jealous cuckold's sight,
That he to wedlock dotingly betray'd,
Should hope in this lewd town to find a maid!
The man's grown mad: to ease his frantic pain,
Run for the surgeon; breathe the middle vein:
But let a heifer with gilt horns be led
To Juno, regent of the marriage-bed,
And let him every deity adore,

If his new bridle prove not an arrant whore
In head and tail, and every other pore.
On Ceres' feast restrain'd from their delight,
Few matrons there, but curse the tedious night:
Few whom their fathers dare salate, such lust
Their kisses have, and come with such a gust.
With ivy now adorn thy doors, and wed;
Such is thy bride, and such thy genial bed.
Think'st thou one man is for one woman meant?
She sooner with one eye would be content

And yet 'tis nois d, a maid did once appear In some small village, though fame says not where:

'Tis possible; but sure no man she found;
'Twas desert, all, about her father's ground:
And yet some lustful god might there make bold,
Are Jove and Mars grown impotent and old?
Many a fair nymph has in a cave been spread,
And much good love, without a feather-bed.
Whither would'st thou to choose a wife resort,
The park, the mall, the play-house, or the court?
Which way soever thy adventures fall,
Secure alike of chastity in all.

One sees a dancing-master capering high,
And raves, and pisses, with pure ecstasy:
And one is charm'd with the new opera notes,
Admires the song, but on the singer dotes:
The country lady in the box appears,
Softly she warbles over all she hears;
And sucks in passion both at eyes and ears.

The rest (when now the long vacation's come,
The noisy hall and theatres grown dumb)
Their memories to refresh, and cheer their hearts,
In borrow'd breeches act the players' parts.
The poor, that scarce have wherewithal to eat,
Will piuch, to make the singing boy a treat.
The rich, to buy him, will refuse no price,
And stretch his quail-pipe, till they crack his voice.
Tragedians, acting love, for lust are sought
(Though but the parrots of a poet's thought).
The pleading lawyer, though for counsel us'd,
In chamber practice often is refus'd.
Still thou wilt have a wife, and father heirs
(The product of concurring theatres).
Perhaps a fencer did thy brows adorn,
And a young sword-man to thy lands is born.
Thus Hippia loath'd her old patrician lord,
And left him for a brother of the sword:
To wondering Pharos with her love she fled,
To show one monster more than Afric bred:
Forgetting house and husband, left behind
Ev'n children too; she sails before the wind;
False to them all, but constant to her kind,
But, stranger yet, and harder to conceive,
She could the play-house and the players leave.
Born of rich parentage, and nicely bred,
She lodg'd on down, and in a damask bed;

Yet fearing not the dangers of the deep,
On a hard mattress is content to sleep.
Ere this, 'tis true, she did her fame expose:
But that, great ladies with great case can lose.
The tender nymph could the rude ocean bear:
So much her lust was stronger than her fear.
But had some honest cause her passage prest,
The smallest hardship had dist urb'd her breast:
Each inconvenience, makes their virtue cold;
But womankind, in ills, is ever bold.
Were she to follow her own lord to sea,
What doubts or scruples would she raise to stay?
Her stomach sick, and her head giddy grows;
The tar and pitch are nauseous to her nose.
But in love's voyage nothing can offend;
Women are never sea sick with a friend.
Amidst the crew, she walks upon the board;
She eats, she drinks, she handles every cord:
And if she spews, 'tis thinking of her lord.
Now ask, for whom her friends and fame she lost?
What youth, what beauty, could th' adulterer boast?
What was the face for which she could sustain
To be call'd mistress to so base a man?
The gallant, of his days had known the best :
Deep scars were seen indented on his breast;
And all his batter'd limbs requir'd their needful
A promontory wen, with grisly grace,
Stood high, upon the handle of his face:
His blear eyes ran in gutters to his chin;
His beard was stubble, and his cheeks were thin.
But twas his fencing did her fancy move:
'Tis arms, and blood, and cruelty, they love.
But should he quit his trade, and sheath his sword,
Her lover would begin to be her lord.

[rest

This was a private crime; but you shall hear
What fruits the sacrel brows of monarchs bear:
The good old sluggard but began to snore,
When from his side uprose th' imperial whore:
She who preferr'd the pleasures of the night
To pomps, that are but impotent delight:
Strode from the palace, with an eager pace,
To cope with a more masculine embrace:
Muffed she march'd, like Juno in a cloud,
Of all her train but one poor wench allow'd,
One whom in secret service she could trust;
The rival and companion of her lust.
To the known brothel-house she takes her way;
And for a nasty room gives double pay;
That room in which the rankest harlot lay.
Prepar'd for fight, expectingly she lies,
With heaving breasts, and with desiring eyes,
Still as one drops, another takes his place,
And baffled still succeeds to like disgrace.
At length, when friendly darkness is expir'd,
And every strumpet from her cel' retir'd,
She lags behind, and. lingering at the gate,
With a repining sigh submits to fate:
All filth without, and all a fire within,
Tir'd with the toil, unsated with the sin,
Old Cæsar's bed the modest matron seeks;
The steam of lamps still hanging on her cheeks,
In ropy smut: this foul, and thus bedight,
She brings him back the product of the night.

Now should I sing what poisons they provide;
With all their trumpery of charms beside;
And all their arts of death: it would be known
Lust is the smallest sin the sex can own.
Cæsinia still, they say, is guiltless found
Of every vice, by her own lord renown'd:
And well she may, she brought ten thousand pound.

She brought him wherewithal to be call'd chaste;
His tongue is ty'd in golden fetters fast:
He sighs, adores, and courts her every hour;
Who would not do as much for such a dower?
She writes love-letters to the youth in grace;
Nay, tips the wink before the cuckold's face;
And might do more; her portion makes it good;
Wealth has the privilege of widowhood.

These truths with his example you disprove,
Who with his wife is monstrously in love:
But know him better; for I heard him swear,
'Tis not that she's his wife, but that she's fair.
Let her but have three wrinkles in her face,
Let her eyes lessen, and her skin unbrace,
Soon you will hear the saucy steward say,
"Pack up with all your trinkets, and away;
You grow offensive both at bed and board:
Your betters must be had to please my lord."

Meantime she's absolute upon the throne:
And, knowing time is precious, loses none:
She must have flocks of sheep, with wool more fine
Than silk, and vineyards of the noblest wine:
Whole droves of pages for her train she craves :
And sweeps the prisons for attending slaves.
In short, whatever in her eyes can come,
Or others have abroad, she wants at home.
When winter shuts the seas, and fleecy snows
Make houses white, she to the merchant goes ;
Rich crystals of the rocks she takes up there,
Huge agate vases, and old china-ware.

But is none worthy to be made a wife
In all this town? Suppose her free from strife,
Rich, fair, and fruitful, of unblemish'd life;
Chaste as the Sabines, whose prevailing charms
Dismiss'd their husbands, and their brothers' arms:
Grant her, besides, of noble blood, that ran
In ancient veins ere heraldry began:
Suppose all these, and take a poet's word,
A black swan is not half so rare a bird.

A wife, so hung with virtues, such a freight,
What mortal shoulders could support the weight!
Some country-girl, scarce to a curtsey bred,
Would I much rather than Cornelia wed:
If, supercilious, haughty, proud, and vain,
She brought her father's triumphs in her train,
Away with all your Carthaginian state,
Let vanquish'd Hannibal without doors wait,
Too burly and too big to pass my narrow gate.
"O Paan," cries Amphion," bend thy bow
Against my wife, and let my children go :"
But sullen Pæan shoots at sons and mothers too.
His Niobe and all his boys he lost;
Ev'n her, who did her numerous offspring boast,
As fair and fruitful as the sow that carry'd
The thirty pigs, at one large litter farrow'd.
What beauty or what chastity can bear

So great a price? If stately and severe,
She still insults, and you must still adore;
Grant that the honey's much, the gall is more.
Upbraided with the virtues she displays,

Seven hours in twelve, you loath the wife you

praise:

Some faults, though small, intolerable grow;
For what so nauseous and affected too,
As those that think they due perfection want,
Who have not learnt to lisp the Grecian caut?
In Greece their whole accomplishments they seek:
Their fashion, breeding, language, must be Greek:
But, raw in all that does to Rome belong,
They scorn to cultivate their mother-tongue.

In Greek they flatter, all their fears they speak,
Tell all their secrets; nay, they scold in Greek:
Ev'n in the feat of love, they use that tongue.
Such affectations may become the young;
But thou, old hag, of threescore years and three,
Is showing of thy parts in Greek for thee?
Ζωὴ καὶ ψυχὴ ! All those tender words
The momentary trembling bliss affords,
The kind soft murmurs of the private sheets
Are bawdy, while thou speak'st in public streets.
Those words have fingers; and their force is such,
They raise the dead, and mount him with a touch.
But all provocatives from thee are vain :
No blandishment the slacken'd nerve can strain.

If then thy lawful spouse thou canst not love,
What reason should thy mind, to marriage move?
Why all the charges of thy nuptial feast,
Wine and desserts, and sweet-meats to digest?
Th' endowing gold that buys the dear delight,
Giv'n for their first and only happy night?
If thou art thus uxoriously inclin'd,
To bear thy bondage with a willing mind,
Prepare thy neck, and put it in the yoke:
But for no mercy from thy woman look.
For though, perhaps, she loves with equal fires,
To absolute dominion she aspires;
Joys in the spoils, and triumphs o'er thy purse;
The better husband makes the wife the worse.
Nothing is thine to give, or sell, or buy,
All offices of ancient friendship die;
Nor hast thou leave to make a legacy,
By thy imperious wife thou art bereft ;
A privilege, to pimps and panders left;
Thy testament's her will; where she prefers
Her ruffians, drudges, and adulterers,
Adopting all thy rivals for thy heirs.

"Go drag that slave to death :" your reason, why Should the poor innocent be doom'd to die? What proofs? For, when man's life is in debate, The judge can ne'er too long deliberate.

"Call'st thou that slave a man," the wife re

plies:

"Prov'd, or unprov'd, the crime, the villain dies.
I have the sovereign power to save or kill;
And give no other reason but my will." [change,
Thus the she-tyrant reigns, till, pleas'd with
Her wild affections to new empires range:
Another subject husband she desires,
Divorc'd from him, she to the first retires,
While the last wedding-feast is scarcely o'et,
And garlands hang yet green upon the door,
So still the reckoning rises; and appears,
In total sum, eight husbands in five years.
The title for a tomb-stone might be fit;
But that it would too commonly be writ.

Her mother living, hope no quiet day;
She sharpens her, instructs her how to flea
Her husband bare, and then divides the prey.
She takes love-letters, with a crafty smile,
And, in her daughter's answer, mends the style.
In vain the husband sets his watchful spies;
She cheats their cunning, or she bribes their eyes
The doctor's call'd; the daughter, taught the trick,,
Pretends to faint; and in full health is sick.
The panting stallion, at the closet-door,
Hears the consult, and wishes it were o'er.
Canst thou, in reason, hope, a bawd so known,
Should teach her other manners than her own?
Her interest is in all th' advice she gives:
'Tis on the daughter's rents the mother lives,

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