The folly of love, or, An essay upon satyr against woman

THE Folly of Love, A SATYR.

HAppy was Man at first by Nature made, The welcome guest of Edens blisful shade; With awful Reverence every where Ador'd, And all the Creatures own'd him for their LORD; Ev'n the wild Beasts, who have been Rebels since, Then practis'd Non-Resistance to their Prince. When for his pleasure he disposed to rest, No sawcy Insect durst his sleep molest; In gentle slumbers undisturb'd he lay Till Phoebus usher'd in the new-born day;

Lord of himself, his passions not enslav'd; He nothing wanted, for he never crav'd.

It hapned on a too too fatal time, As he did up a Spacious Mountain climb Of Natures works, a prospect to survey, A lovely Grove invited him to stay; Where spreading Beach and stately Elm afford A pleasing shade to the Creation's Lord: Hard by, a murm'ring Stream did softly creep, On whose green Banks he laid him down to sleep: But whilst in pleasant Dreams intrans'd he lay, Some Spirit came and stole his Rib away, And of that crooked shapeless thing did frame The Worlds great Plague, and did it Woman name.

He 'wak'd, with Wonder and Devotion fill'd, When he her goodly Shape and Form beheld: With gazing his amazement was increast, He thought she was some Goddess at the least: But when the thing was better understood, He found she was but only Flesh and Blood. Without Priests Aid he took her for his Bride, And laid the smiling Mischief by his side.

Love's solemn Rights not long had been fulfil'd, But his new Spouse perceiv'd she was with Child; And tho he strove by all kind arts to please, Yet all in vain, she could not be at ease, Until by stealth to save her longing, she Had tasted of the one forbidden Tree: The fatal morfel hardly swallow'd down, She found the angry Face of Heav'n to Frown; Yet so prevailing was her Malice grown, She was resolv'd not to be curst alone, And therefore with insinuating smiles, Her too believing Husband soon beguiles: The baneful Treat soon opens both their Eyes, To take a prospect of their Miseries; With melancholly sights they mourn their Fate, And Eden with regret they Abdicate.

From her accursed Loyns have sprung a Race, The Worlds, their Own, and all Mankinds Disgrace. Woman! at speaking of the very name, Nature starts back and hides her self in shame. Woman! the fatal Authress of our Fall: Woman! the sure Destroyer of us all,

Like Sodom's Apples pleasant to the Eye, Within pale rottenness, and ashes lye; Their very sight our youthful Blood enrage, And prove as fatal to declining age. Oh! could we live without that cloven Sex, Whose only pleasure's to torment and vex, Angels from their abodes would downwards fly, And bless mankind with their society.

Altho but little hopes can ere be had, To mend what is incorrigibly bad; Yet Satyr thy severest Whip prepare To lash the sex, so very vile and fair. Be just, spare neither Quality nor Age, From Girl, just fit for Man, to Matron sage; From Dunghill-raker, up to Lady fine, Dressing all day in Play-house Box to shine; Recount their various Arts, their subtle Wiles, Their artful Tears, and their more artful Smiles; Their numerous Vices, which they Vertue Paint, And from the Woman separate the Saint, That so unwary, heedless Youth may shun Those fatal Rocks, where others split upon.

Of all the various seeds of Vice which rest Within the compass of the Female Breast; The first which shews it self in open view Is Pride, the earliest sin the Devil knew: But such success does t' imitation fall, The Copy far exceeds th' Original. In Pride, so quickly they proficient grow, That Babes the Nipples do not sooner know.

Should any daring Pen attempt to show What sorts of Dress our Modern Females know, What antick habits their own Mothers wore, And what was us'd an hundred years before, Their Fardingales, Stiff-Ruffs, and all the train Of Fashions us'd in old Queen Bess's Reign; Could he describe the Rise and Pedigree Of Monumental Top-Knot Gallantry, Expose their arts (which they esteem no sin) To mend the Face, and Meliorate the Skin, Of Washes, Paints, Perfumes, display their skill, The bare relation would more Volumes fill, Than are in Oxford or the Vatican, And reach from thence to China or Japan.

Ev'n the raw Country Girl just come to Town In her Straw-Hat and Linsy-Wolsy Gown, Rather than she unmodish would appear, And come to Church in her plain rusty Gear, By Envy and by Inclination led, Will for new rigging pawn her Maidenhead, All on a sudden grows so wondrous pretty, The City Mantua hides plain Country-Betty.

Nay the Old Madams too, who one would think Stood tott'ring upon life's extreamest brink; Those who in spight of Nature will be young, At Theat'res and Churches where they throng, Are (but with laughter) by the Gallants seen Drest and set off like Girls of Seventeen. Lord! with a what uncommon charming Grace, That fine Settee becomes a wainscot Face! How Mother Shipton looks drest up in Point, Who, tho her Face with Paint she so anoint, That like a Joynted Baby she appears, So sleek, so plump, so ruddy, and so clear, Yet all can never hide her Threescore Years. But so unlimited a vice is Pride, That Nature's Faults it does not only hide,

But even as far as serves to cheat the Eye, Does her Defects as constantly supply.

Imagin now from Play-house just return'd A Lady, who when there, in fancy burn'd; Uneasy by some disappointments made, Preparing to undress her self for Bed; Her curled Locks (mistaken for her own) Are in confusion on her Toylet thrown; Next her Glass Eye put nicely in a Box, With Ivory Tooth, which never had the Pox, Her stiff Steel-Bodies, which her Bunch did hide, Are with her artificial Buttocks laid aside; Thus she who did but a small hour ago, Like Angel or Terrestrial Goddess show, Slides into loathsom sheets, where since we've fixther, Leave her, of Pride and Lust, an equal mixture.

Not all the Malice joyn'd with all the Wit, With which ill natur'd Poets ever writ, Could ever yet describe the various kinds Of Womens boundless Lusts, which strictly binds Their Souls and Bodies, so they seem to be Compos'd of nothing else but Lechery: The little Girl who can but write fourteen, Thinks days are ages till the sport she's seen,

Altho her am'rous Nest is hardly Feather'd, Altho scarce ripe, yet longs she to be gather'd.

Ev'n they whom pious Education fools, Or else are bound by strict Monastick Rules, Yet burn with such an inward Lustful Flame, As all their little Arts can never tame.

Lap-Dogs and D—s serve as much to cure Their am'rous customary Calenture, As men in Fevers, when they drink small Beer, Which makes the Fit return but more severe. All the endeavours for to quench desire, Serve only to promote the hidden Fire. Lust, the first lesson which they always learn 'Ere they the difference of Sex discern; But that at last by airy notions got, Is the whole subject of their private chat; Nay, Bawds half drunk at a young Bastards Christn∣ing More lewdly cannot talk, than I (who listning) Have heard young Virgins in a corner prattle About some notions broach't by Aristotle. But since the name of Lust is too severe, Too harsh and rugged for the Female Ear, We'll call it Love, and under that disguise, Observe their various close Hipocrisies.

By arbitrary Custom, long since curst, In Love, the Women must not offer first: They must appear indifferent and cold, And when the Youth has all his Passions told, Put on a forc'd Disguise, and gravely say, What pity Sir, fine words are thrown away! In other things I'm much at your command, But not one word of Love I understand; Yet by her Eyes, which best the Soul express, Her inclinations are not hard to guess.

Suppose a Youth most Fortunately Blest With all the Charms that ere his Sex possest; Transform'd by Love into a whining Fool, A Womans Play-thing, and a Chamber-Tool: If she be Proud, (as where's the She is not?) When Prostrate at her Feet she sees the Sot; With greater Pride the Turk did never seem, T' Insult on Prostrate Slaves, than she on him: She slights his Presents, and neglects his Passion, And makes his Torments but her Recreation But yet his Flatteries have this effect, In punishing her feigned cold neglect; Her Pride and Lust they so much serve t'inflame, That she at last in order them to tame,

Her wishes to some Stallion does impart, And his Strong Back must ease her Am'rous Smart. — Thus what to Love and Merit was deny'd, Is by the Favourite Groom or Footman try'd. Thus tho the Nymph began t'appear so coy, Yet lets another tast the hidden Joy; For the whole Sex agree it shall be sayd, Nature made Mouths which were not to be Fed; Sometimes a Crust goes with more Gusto down, Than all French Kickshaws and Ragous in Town: Curst Fate of Women who do always run In those extreams which most they strove to shun.

But grant her Gen'rous, Affable and Kind, And not to Pride or Tyranny inclin'd; Easy when Courted, and dispos'd to yield, And leave Philander Master of the Field. Tho the last favours are allow'd, and he Proud of a new obtain'd Felicity, Loves even to a dotage, knows no Heaven but she, And thinks the Gods not half so blest as he: Yet in the midst of all his rapt'rous Joys, Before his Person or Enjoyment Cloys, She Jilts him; and to highten his disgrace, Kisses some new pretender 'fore his Face.

Some little time she's kind to this new Lover, But quickly does some cause of change discover: Weary of him she to another flies, Swears he's the only person she can prize; But having him two days, five hours, three-quarters, Leaves him to Hang in Penitential Garters; Still apt to change, to give their Sex their due, They scarcely are to their own wishes true. They Love, they Hate, and yet they know not why, Constant in nothing but Inconstancy. When you of Nature can divert the curse, And make the Loadstone leave its 'tractive force. Prove Snow is black, and wash the Negro white, And make the Sun appear in darkest night: Fix Quick-silver, and make the Sea stand still, And cause the Clouds no longer Rain distil; When this by art you can affect and do, Then I'll believe a Woman can be true.

But hold, some Female Advocate I hear, Who blames my Satyr as if too severe. If some (says he) are fickle, are there none Whose Vertues may for others Faults attone? Who built the great Mausoleum, which fame Does one of th' Worlds seven wonders justly name?

But Artimesa whose true Love was such, That her own Body was not thought too much For her dear Husband's Ashes to find room, And to his Mem'ry did Erect that Tomb; Nay, in this Vicious Age some few there are, Behind that Queens Example come not far.

'Tis own'd; but such Examples are as scarce As five-leg'd Calves, three Moons, or Blazing-Stars. For when into the World such Monsters creep, Nature is Retrograde, or half asleep.

Nature, on whom we justly lay the blame, Which so inclines us for to act our shame. For after all, how small, alas, the gains Will be, for which we take such mighty pains! But a short Bliss, a nasty fulsom Joy Which we regret, e'ne while we yet enjoy; So trifling, no wise man finds pleasure in it, 'Tis thought begun and finisht in a minute; And when the eager short liv'd transport's o're, We lie like Fishes gasping on the shore. Oh Nature, Nature! rigid are thy Laws, To which we blindly must submit our Cause.

Who without horrour, or amazement, can Survey that hideous Precipice of Man?

Or with his Pen sufficiently deplore, That fatal Gulph we call a Common Whore? Who can express her Arts of drawing in Unwary Youths, to the beloved sin? When caught, with Stratagems she still prepares, To keep them blindfold in the fatal Snares. So soon she learnt the Linnen-lifting Trade, That she forgets she ever was a Maid: In Arts obscene so very 'xpert and clear, The Devil himself must come to learn of her; For should all Tricks of Female Lewdness fail, They all would be reviv'd in Posture Mall, The Sexes Harlequin or Scaramouch, Whose various Scenes of Nakedness are such, As e'en makes Nature blush.—But hold my Muse, This Subject will too much thy thoughts abuse: Let's leave her, who to Lewdness sets no bounds, The Lady Abbess of the Fleetstreet Nuns.

Their Youth with Claps, and Lust just worn away, And all their Charms beginning to decay; With Mead and Bottle-Beer, they call Cock-Ale, And some young Cracks, who waiting never fail, Commence Grave Bauds and keep a Vaulting School, Where Callow Youths their Health and Mony fool;

While they by Age Venereal Sports forbid, Yet highly pleas'd to see what once they did. They live in one continued Scene of Lust, Till Pox or Gallows turn them into Dust.

Kept Mistresses my Satyr next will find, A Trade which is but Whoring much refin'd; A sort of Jilts, so false and so untrue, As Whetstones-Park or Fleetstreet never knew. In former times they were content and proud, With th' usual Pittance which the Spark allow'd, And took it for a favour seldom known, If twice a Year was blest with a new Gown; But now so termigant and haughty grown, That ere kind Keeper steps into her Bed, With Coach and Six she must be furnished; Have Settlement and Joynture made her Honour, And take such State and Quality upon her; Sit in the front of the King's Box at Plays, And Rival Lady Dutches to her Face; Lavish out more in one Spring-Garden Treat, Than would provide a First-Rate Ship with Meat. While Liberham her Lust can ne're suffice, But what his unperforming Back denies, The Footman and the Coachmans Brawn supplies;

Such Slaves they are to Interest and Gold, That should a man both Impotent and old, Worn out with Claps, the Palsy, or the Gout, By some device find Bellamira out; Bid but a brace of Hundreds more a year, Yet this old Lecher will the Jilt prefer Before the Youth whose Blood his Passion warms, And can each Night with Pleasure fill her Arms. Nothing in Nature ever was so common, As Jilting, Wanton, Prostituted Woman.

Nay, those that do to Vertue most pretend, Yet seldom are without their private Friend, By whom in secret often they'r carest, For stolen Pleasures often are the best; Manag'd altho' with greatest privacy, Yet sometimes get a tell tale Tympany; And then the little Infants cries proclaim The Fathers Frolick, and the Mothers Shame: But if the Intreague's so closely carry'd on, That not the least Item of the matter's known; How she will of her Vertue loudly prate, And blush, yet rightly understand what's what; Abroad 'gainst Lewdness how she will exclaim, Yet daily practice what she does condemn:

If after all the Damsel seeming Chast, The Husband-Lover courts her at the last; With the success he will not be deny'd, But have this Modest Virgin for his Bride. Lord! what a stir is made with Alum Water, And such Astringents for to hide the matter! That she who knows as much as did her Mother, May seem amaz'd, and all her Amours smother, And in his Arms be fearful of a touch: But hold, of this enough, if not too much.

Of all the Plagues attending human Life, The greatest sure is that we call a Wife; Nor is there a more pitied Wretch than he, That's doom'd to Matrimonial Slavery: Unquiet days and nights with endless noise, Are the sad consequence of such a choice: For little did he think what mischiefs lay In those hard words, for ever and for aye; Those holy Words which the sly Clergy use To cajole People in a fatal noose; A Charm no after-Magick can unty, Till both or either opportunely Die. A Wife, what is she but a Wench by Law, Which tame Fools Wed to keep themselves in awe?

For sum up all the Curses which befall Poor man, he that's Marry'd has 'em all.

If Jealousy, that Wild-fire of the Brain, Does once her serious thinking entertain; Bred by Suspicion, and by Fancy Nurst, No Tyger ever was so Fierce and Curst. Abroad she like some Hellish Fury seems, At home still haunted by her own vain Dreams; Unquiet, never with her self at peace, Till some kind Rope or Poyson give her ease, Fit Physick for so desp'rate a Disease.

If Appetite to change, or some Disgust, Addeth some Fuel to her private Lust; It is resolv'd, nor shall thy Fate, O Man! Resist her Vow; for do what ere thou can, No Bolts, Bars, Locks, can Fetter Inclination, Thou art a Cuckold by Predestination. (Hard Fate of Custom, that the Faults of Wife, Serve to disgrace the Husband during Life,) Either of credit, negligent, she cares Not who her loose Intreagues both sees and hears; Tho' at Noon-day t'r House the Heroes rush, And she has long time since forgot to Blush; Or else by 'pointment in a Dark Alcove, Design'd for all the stolen sweets of Love;

Meets her Gallant, and opening all her Charms, Flies eagerly to his desired Arms: My Dear, my Love, my Life, my Soul she cries, (Still mingling every Period with a Kiss.) How blest am I! methinks in Thee I find All that was made to pleasure Woman-kind. Lord! What a Nauseous thing my Husband's grown. Now thou art here, I fancy I have none: Thank Fate who this kind meeting did allow, We'll drink the Cuckold's Health before we go; Faith 'tis an honest dull performing Tool, By Nature fram'd to be a Womans Fool: But thou my Dear hast found the only Art, At once to Conquer and Eenjoy my Heart; Then smiles: Mean while the Gallant strives to prove His Vigour in the brisk assaults of Love. Nor is she idle, for some Learned Pen Assures us, that in those affairs— Women are much more active than the Men. The little God allows the finisht Bliss, A Parting Bottle, and a Parting Kiss; And when to meet again, for that's the Text, Each Visit being but Prologue to the next;

But since to see him, Fortune does deny His Presence; she by fancy does supply Her Pleasure, she with so much Art refines, (A Secret still unknown to vulgar minds,) That when the Wretch whom she does Husband name, Attempts to quench her everlasting Flame; Ev'n in the Act of the most kind Embrace, When Arms, Legs, Thighs are joyn'd, and Face to Face, By powerful Imagination she, Her absent Gallant hugs in Effegie, And fancy's her dear Cuckold-Spouse is he; While poor Cornuto humbly drudges on, Till blest (with what he ne're begat) a Son; Then at the Christning, to compleat the Jest, The modest Gallant's chosen from the rest For Godfather, pleased with the double Joy, Of Getting and to Name the little Boy.

Intreaguing is of late so much the Trade, That she who Travels not that slip'ry Road, Is laught at by her Sex, as much or more, As Cheated Cully is by Bully-Whore. Could Grays-Inn VValks, or those of Lincolns-Inn, (Places where Women teach their minds to sin,)

Or Park, or either Play-House but relate, What fine Discourse, what pretty am'rous Chat, Between the Gallant and the VVife is made. When a new Scene of Pleasure's to be laid, What strange discoveries would the places make? More wonderful than those of Captain Drake; Monsters he saw, but rarely here and there, But here whole Droves of Cuckolds would appear. The patient, angry, and unthinking one, Whose Wife's a Jilt, yet he'll believe her none. Happy's the Man that's handsomly deceiv'd, VVhose VVife both Swears and Lyes, and is beleiv'd.

Nay, take the best of all these Clogs of Life, I mean (if such there be) a vertuous VVife; She that with new Indearments ev'ry Night, Provokes Desire and hightens Appetite: Her Female Fondness will destruction prove, Like Opium, to the choice delights of Love. For what we may at any time enjoy, Does ev'n the relish of the Bliss destroy. To Pleasure difficulty adds a Gust, I cannot Love and yet I must be just; So when to duty, inclination turns, How faintly th' Hymenial-Taper burns;

And no Man yet could ever learn the Art, T' Insure a Womans fickle roving Heart. That valued thing, her Beauty, may decay, And Love will wear insensibly away; And when the occasion of the Passion's fled, Sure Inclination will be faint or dead; But if to'r natural Infirmities, Be added some acute and sharp Disease: Then Doctors and Apothecaries come, And with their Pots and Glasses fill the room. Thrice happy he to whom such luck does fall, T' imbrace Disease, and VVedd an Hospitall:

All Swell'd with Sighs and Blubber'd with her Tears, A new made VVidow next in view appears, Beating her Breast and tearing off her Hair, She seems the very Emblem of Despair. One would imagin that some mighty matter, Was meant by all this hideous noise and clatter; When her whole mourning's but a perfect Cheat, For she ne're weeps, but 'tis when others see't. Alone her Sorrows to her Hopes give place, She's form'd the project of a new Embrace; And e're her Husband in the Grave be laid, Her Thoughts are of a Second Bridal-Bed.

A Maidens Vertue may perhaps be sense, But who e're heard of Widows continence? For their frail Tenements were ne're design'd, T indure a Seige so often Vndermin'd. If she be Young her Inclinations speak, Spite of her Dress of black Bandore and Peak; A Garb invented for to let us know, That the late Tenants Lease is out below; For Pious Inclinations seldom fail, To lurk beneath a Youthful Widows Vail. Tell me ye Fortune-Hunters of the Age, Who with new Faces ev'ry hour engage, If for one easy Fond believing Maid, Twice fifty Am'rous Widows have not fled Into your Arms? for 'tis the Creed they hold, One Warm Bedfellow's worth a hundred cold. The Worn out Soldier finds an Hospital; And Wither'd Age does for an Alms-house call. The Charter-house for Gentlemen decay'd, And Widows were for Younger Brothers made. One in an Age perhaps there may be known, A Widow laugh at all the Fops in Town: Live like th' Ephesian Matron all forlorn, Refuse all Visits all Pretenders Scorn.

Yet there's a time.—But rarely understood, When Sorrow gives the Wall to Flesh and Blood; Then if the Lucky Minute be but known, Ply your Suit warm, she's certainly your own. To these poor Souls perhaps I may be civil, But VVidows Old and Am'rous are the Devil: Rather converted into Willow-Switch, I'd e'ry night be Hagg-rid by a VVitch, The greatest curse I rather would prefer, Than enter into loathed Sheets with her.

As equally offensive to my Arms, As an old Maid by Age depriv'd of charms; For tho' she may be vain and think to please, Yet Fifty's an Incurable Disease. Oh! with what mighty pleasure shee'l relate, (Like Cavileers the Wars in forty eight,) What fine young Sparks her humble Servants were, And how she made them languish with despair▪ But yet her Vertue was as much above Their Flatteries, as they beneath her Love. Her Vertue —Dam her with her canting stile, When 'twas her Pride preserv'd her all the while; For let all Women till they'r weary prate, That Honour stands as Centry at the Gate:

That Innocence and Vertue are their Crown, 'Tis Pride, 'tis Pride that keeps their Linnen down; Their peevish Vertue keeps them chast in spight, By day their Guard and Bugbear all the night: True Hypocrites, who what they chiefly covet, Seem most t' abhor and hate it when they love it: Now nice, then free, now grave, and then more com∣mon, There is no other Riddle but a Woman.

Oh, Woman, Woman! who can ere Rehearse, In lasting Prose, or much more lasting Verse, What mighty Mischiefs have by thee been done, Since angry Nature thee to Frame begun? Who but an haughty Cleopatra cost; Mark Anthony the World? for her 'twas lost. Who was't the Roman Capitol Betray'd? But a perfideous Whore, some call a Maid? Who was the cause of a ten long Years War, When Warlike Greeks and Trojans were at Jar, But Hellen, stole by Paris? when he'd dont, Caus'd a long VVar upon the score of — For her offended Husband, Swore in rage, Ten Thousand Lives should ne're his wrath asswage. There never was a Plot or close design, The quiet of a State to undermine,

Or private Family to ruin brought, Wherein a Woman was not in the Plot; Let who will lead the Van, 'tis plain and clear In Mischief, Women still bring up the Rear; Yet they of Plots, poor Souls, do know no more, Than he that Form'd the Project just before.

Thus we've of Women made a short Survey, And lightly touch'd their Vices in our way; But a Fond Lover with his sensless Muse, Will all their Frailties and their Faults excuse; For is his Mistress ugly beyond thought, She is his Queen, his Goddess, and what not? If she with Moles and Spots be Larded o're, He'l tell you Venus had a Mole before; He for her Limping has some pretty hints, She seems to him to Languish when she Squints; If Foolish; Lord! how Innocent she is! Nay, her Malicious Wit is sure to please; If Drowsy-look'd, she has the Air of France; If Sluttish, 'tis but a-la-Negligence; If Tawdry and Ill-drest, she's Modish thought, For Love can make a Venus of a Slut; If she Sings worse than a Hoarse Smithfield-Truli, To her's, the Musick of the Sphears is dull;

If VVither'd Old, Age for Respect doth call, And Bags to make her Young will never fail; If Lewd as Cresswell in her youthful days, Yet to her Vertue he will Altars raise: Let the deluded Fool go on, till's greatest curse Be those few words, for better and for worse.

Oh! were there but some Island vast and wide, Where Nature's Drest in all her choicest Pride; The Air Serene, as Thoughts of Angels be, Fertile the Ground, Spontaneous and Free; Producing all things which we useful call, As Edens-Garden did before the Fall; Of Choicest Vines an inexhausted store, With Swelling Clusters ready to run o're, With their own plenty of the Godlike Juice, Which seems in Man a second Soul t' infuse; There with a Score of Choice Selected Friends, Who know no private Interests nor Ends, We'd Live, and could we Procreate like Trees, And without Womans Aid— Promote and Propogate our Species; The Day in Sports and innocent Delight We'd spend, and in soft Slumber wast the Night:

Sometimes within a private Grotto meet, With gen'rous Wines and Fruits our selves we'd Treat; Ambition, Envy, and that Meager Train, Should never interrupt our Peaceful Raign; Blest with Strong-Health, and a most quiet mind, Each day our Thoughts should new Diversion find, But never, never think on Woman-kind.

FINIS.

Notes

• Sr. C. S.