Poems, chiefly consisting of satyrs and satyrical epistles by Robert Gould.

TO THE Much honoured and my dear Friend, D. D. Esquire. Sent him With my Satyr against Woman.

SOme Men do the Fair Sex so much adore, That to dispraise 'em makes 'em do••t the more: Spur'd by blind Appetite they hurry on, Nor see the Precipice a Child might shun: So 'tis but Woman, all, they think, is well, Though she's the steep descent that leads to Hell. Slaves to a smile, for one commanding nod, The Profligates wou'd ev'n renounce their God. Nay some have set their whole Estates to sale, But to redeem a Prostitute from Iayl. To such as these, a Satyr of this kind Wou'd scarce their favour, or acceptance find: But you, Sir, made by your Misfortunes wise, Look on that Sex with more discerning Eyes, By sad Experience, and your Cost you know How little to that treach'rous Sex we owe;

Our Natures bane, that give Wings to ill Fate, Which comes too soon, ev'n when it comes but late. Trac'd from their Youth, when vitious deeds begin, Till they're grown old, mature and ripe in sin, They're all a Quicksand, dang'rous, wast and wide, Where if we leave fond Passion for our Guide, We'are soon o'ertaken and o'erwhelm'd by an Impetuous Tyde; Th' inevitable Fate nought can restrain: Who can withstand the anger of the Main, When Winds and Waves, with equal fury, roar And join their strength to beat us from the shore? Such is the Sea when Neptune's pleas'd to lower, And such are Women when w'are in their Power, Sooth us with Calms at first, then, Tempest-like, devour: Now they're all coy, a Maiden blush you'l see, Which some fond Sparks mistake for Modesty; But Modesty they've none, and never had, He that believes 'em modest must be mad, Or else must be in Love, and that's as bad. Woo till your Heartakes, they shall still deny, But then their Conscience gives their Tongues the ly, For meer ill Nature (not want of desire) Makes'em seem cold when they're all flaming Fire. But gain'd, at last, with endless toyl and cost, You'l quickly find your Expectations crost, And your Imaginary Heav'ns all, in a moment, lost.

For the strait Gate a gap so wide you'l find, As if it had been leap't by all Mankind; Some well-hung Groom, clasp't in his Brawny Arms, Cropt her First-fruits, and blasted all her Virgin Charms. But marry'd, the poor Slave must be content, He sees his Doom, and does in vain repent: For she that was demure, now talks aloud, Impertinent, expensive, slothful, proud, At once involves you in a Maze of strife, And makes you, like a Packhorse, drudge for Life; Nor with old age does her perverseness cease, But watches your last gasp nor lets you dy in Peace.

O Hymen! boast no more thou giv'st us Joy, Thou rather dost all humane Peace destroy; When thou arriv'st, our Pleasures quit their ground, And num'rous cares whirl us an endless round, And no dear Interval of rest is found, But all black Horrour, Sorrow and Despair, All that the damn'd can feel, and all that Sinners fear!

Well says the Text, and shows to Man much love, That in the glorious, peaceful Realm above There will no Marriage, fatal Marriage be, No Ty of Conjugal Society: For shou'd those Matches hold, contracted here, 'Twou'd make us stand of Paradise in fear,

The very Essence of our Heav'n destroy, And prove a place of pain, but none of Ioy.

Happy were poor, deluded, lost Mankind, If they at first, or if they yet cou'd find Some decent way to propagate their kind. Coition, but, methinks, I blush to name That Act, so oft committed to our shame. Have you e'r seen a Dog throw down a Dish Of any sort of Victuals, Flesh or Fish, And mark't how sillily he sneaks away? His tail between his Legs, his guilt and shame display. Just such a thing is Man, when he comes cloy'd From the sallacious Punk he has enjoy'd. A knowing Man, if such a risque he run, Must loath himself, methinks, for what h' has done. Yet after all, say it short Ioy does bring, It is attended with a lasting sting; And all that love t' indulge it, soon will see Th' abhorr'd effects of Goatish Venery. It rots the marrow and consumes the Brain, And all the Spirit of the Blood does drain, That shou'd the Principle of Life maintain; Then fretful pale Consumption does succeed, And, of Diseases, all the meagre breed.

O Woman! Woman! every way our bane! Though still of Marriage we must most complain! Ev'n Pox, by fluxing, is in part reliev'd, But fatal Wedlock ne're can be retriev'd!

How many Men are sunk upon that score, That hope to see the dawn of Peace no more? The account is endless, and, O gen'rous Soul, I wish I cou'd not add you to the Roll: The Plagues of Marriage you, at large, possess, No Man has more, no Man deserves 'em less. But since 'tis so, and since 'tis, now, too late E'r to reverse the hard decrees of Fate, You'l show the Resolution of a Man, To bear your Cares as calmly as you can. And since to those that are opprest with Grief, 'Tis Charity t' endeavour their Relief, Accept th' enclos'd, and lay it in your sight; It was design'd to do the injur'd right: To read it may divert your pains a while, Suspend despairing thoughts, and, oft, inspire a smile. So they that pick our Pockets, if they're caught, And at the Carts Tail suffer for their fau't, Though we our Money lose, our Anger ends; To see the Rascals lash't does make amends.