Sylvia's complaint of her sexes unhappiness a poem : being the second part of Sylvia's revenge, or, A satyr against man.

Silvia's Complaint OF HER Sexes Unhappiness. A POEM. Being the Second Part of Silvia's Revenge, or a Sa∣tyr against Man.

'TWas in JVLY, one glorious Afternoon, When to avoid the scorching Heat o'th' Sun, To a thick Grove, compos'd of Beech and Oak, (A place where Poets oft their Muse invoke.) I went alone, but fearing lest I shou'd Be thoughtful in so dark a Solitude,

To Charm the seeming horrour of the place, I brought with me the Works of Hudibrass, — (Diverting Author, in whose ev'ry line Exalted Wit, and weighty Judgment shine.) Each Page with mighty pleasure I perus'd, But as I o're his Charming Numbers mus'd, Methought I heard a strange Confused Noise, Of Sighs and Groans, which seem'd of Female Voice; Amaz'd I listned, and without a pause Resolv'd by curious search to find the Cause; The Eccho was my Guide, which quickly brought Me to the place to find out what I sought; In the most private part of all the Grove, By Nature fram'd for Solitude and Love; To my Amazement and Surprize I found, In Melancholly posture on the Ground, A Fair and Young, but pensive Virgin laid, She was (or at the least she seem'd) a Maid▪ Her Habit Rich, but Careless in her Dress, Which best the Sorrow of the Thoughts express; Tears from her Eyes like liquid Pearls distill, A sight would Savages with pity fill; Thrice gently on her Brest, her hand she struck, And mixt with Sighs, these following words she spoke:

Ah me! to what Misfortunes am I born? With Greif opprest, disconsolate forlorn;

Fate of our Sex has sure no proper care, But Heaven and Earth 'gainst us proclaim a War; We have no Weapons for our own Defence, But that slight Armour call'd our Innocence, Weak in it self altho' it seem so strong, For 'tis not proof against a slandrous Tongue. Envy can blast it with it's poysonous Breath, And Malice torture it almost to Death: Shou'd I within my thoughts but take a veiw Of all those Ills our wretched Sex pursue, From Infancy till Aged we become, The Number would amount to such a Sum; My Thoughts would sinck beneath the pondrous weight, Those Ills I do not mean which angry Fate In measure from it's Wrathful Vials pours, Upon the other Sex as well as Ours; But those peculiar Mischeifs which perplex, Torment and Torture our Vnhappy Sex.

But since I dare not the full Prospect veiw, At least I'le take some notice of a few; As Wounds unsearcht may fester, so my Greif, Unless related, cannot find releif. I'll tell my Sorrows to the Woods and Trees, While — Eccho with my Sighs shall Sympathize,

Of all the Engines which the Feinds of Hell Did unto Men our Deadly Foes reveale.

To ruin and undo us, none there are That may i'th least with Flattery compare; No sort of Speech requires so nice a touch, And nothing else can ruin half so much: For one who has by other Arts been won, Ten thousand have by flat'ry been undone; For like White Gunpowder it makes no noise, Yet sure as Death, it certainly Destroys; This Poyson they into our Ears Distill, E're we the Difference know 'twixt Good and Ill. And we some kind of Tenderness must owe To one who praises and commends us so: When grown to Riper Years, that Womans Breast Must be with more than Common Vertue blest. Who can secure the out-works of her Heart, 'Gainst Flat'ries secret undermining Art. Like pleasant Musick it invades our Ears, Our Reason blinds, and charms our greatest Fears, Disarms our Courage and we tamely yield, To Men in Arts of fine Dissembling skill'd, Who all their Study and their Pains Employ, To Bring Vnthinking Us to Guilty Joy.

So I have seen a Maid, Young, Fair, and Chast, By chance, or else by kind Appointment plac'd, Close by the side of a Dissembling Youth, (Sworn Enemy to Constancy and Truth.)

With awful Distance is his first Adress, Fearing least rudely on her Charms he press; Till more familiar grown the Spark at last, Encircles with one Arm her slender Waste, While t'other hand is honoured with the Bliss, To grasp her soft Hand, or her softer Knees. His Eyes, which are the windows of his Soul, With soft and languishing Desires are full; Each glance of them Speaks more a Lovers sense, Than all the Raptures of Lip-Eloquence; Some little time by these Dumb Signs he speaks, Till with fain'd Sighs he thus his Silence Breaks.

Ah Madam! 'tis impossible to tell, The Racks and Tortures which I hourly feel; Almighty Love — Whom long I did, 〈◊〉〈◊〉-out-brave, Has to his Chariot chain'd me as a Slave: Ten thousand Beauties with their Charming Powers, Ne're mov'd my Heart, until surpriz'd by Yours; Yours with one Glance did stubborn me subdue, The Chains I wear are all put on by You. Ah Charming fair! hSall I not entertain Some Glim'ring Hopes, I shall not sigh in Vain? Must I for ever these sharp Pains endure? The Eyes that caus'd the Wound can give the Cure; Bid me but hope, that Dawning of Success, And I shall have foretasts of Happiness:

For Heaven's sake, Madam, lay a side that Frown, Your Beauty has unhappy me undone; Let not your anger still more wretched make The Man who dies a Martyr for your Sake. Will you? — Then Leans his head upon her Breast, While frequent Sighs and Kisses speak the rest.

Who'd think such fulsom Stuff as this could kill, But ev'ry Days Experience says it will; Witness the truth of this each silly Maid, Who is by such like Practises betray'd, Like our great Grandame Eve, we all suppose, No treachry under fair Pretences grows, Her Longing too in us has taken root, We ne're should else Disire forbidden Fruit; No Force need doubt, that stubborn Town to win, While Cannons play without, has Friends within; One Pitying Thought in Virgins Bosom may Sooner her Honour and her Fame betray, Then Thousand Empty complemental strains, Meer Words of course, and froth of Empty Brains. Farewel her Vertue when Compassions move, For she that pittys, quickly learns to Love.

Could we see Lust through all it's strange disguise, And veiw not what it seems, but what it is; With greater Horrour we the Feind should shun Then Divels, when they from Holy Water Run.

Let Love or Passion be the fond pretence, 'Tis Lust is still the Mythologick Sense; But Men so Artfully disguise their Passion, And call their vilest Lewdness Inclination, Like Fishes greedily the Bait we swallow, Not dreaming of the Ills will after follow.

The three Conditions of the Female Life, Are Virgin, Widdow, or 'fore that, a Wife; To each of which Inexorable Stars, Have order'd such a weighty Load of Cares: So far out-ballancing our short liv'd Joys, The pleasure ev'n of Living it destroys.

When we are Maids, and in our Virgin bloom, Whole Troops of fond expecting Rivals come; And each by Flattery, which they call Praise, In our Opinions strives himself to raise. Nay, they who languish with a modest Fire, Altho' they dare not speak, yet will admire; This, but too oft our Vanity does Swell, To see Men Languish, Sigh, Adore and Kneel: When all this Mighty Complement is done, Not for our Sakes, but chiefly for their own; By thousand various Arts they strive to please, And we are call'd their Charming Mistrisses, Treatment and Balls for us are Daily made, Nor must we want the Nightly Serenade:

Where under Sylvia's or Corrina's Name, In Song and Musick they record our Fame: Nay, our Devotions cannot be Defence Against a Lovers vain Impertinence; For ev'n at Church the Spark which comes to Prayer, Knows 'tis the smallest business he has there; His Eyes, tho' lifted up to Heav'n for shew, Yet through kind Glances to the Womens Pew, To Ogle there he cannot think a Sin, Since Holyness and Love are near of Kin; For being inflam'd by Loose and Wanton Fires, He makes Devotion Pimp to his Desires; No opportunity is lost to try, Where we unwary and defenceless lye: For when he finds our sleeping Vertue Nodds, Then is the time, the fatal time ye Gods. He rushes on us with a storm of Love, While we the grateful Violence approve; Our Pleasure 'fore our Honour we prefer, And with our Arms embrace the Ravisher. Think Heav'n is round us, when we try the Bliss, But while with waking Dreams our selves we please, And think each Rapture greater than the first, The wretch by Heaven, and Earth, and us accurst, Leaves us to chew the Cudd with sad regret, That we like Phrygians were but wise too Late.

In Vain, in vain, ye men of mighty sense, Ye make to Love and Constancy Pretence, Early or late you also plainly shew, 'Tis Monstrous for to Love and yet be true; Alike ye all with flattery begin, To tempt and draw us to the Pleasing Sin; Alike ye all forsake us when ye find We Love you, and without Reserve, are kind.

If this were all, we might with patience bear, And somtimes for our Vertue drop a Tear, When we believ'd what foolish we had done, Only to us, and perjur'd — ; you was known; — But oh! what Plagues does he desire to feel, Who Does the Favours of the Fair reveal, And what in private done, in publick tell; Altho' perhaps some little time before, To gain his Ends, with horrid Oaths he Swore, That open force nor Undermining Art, Should never get the secret from his Heart: But that more safe hee'd keep it in his Breast, Then State Intreigues, or Juggling Arts of Priest, When at next Tavern or some Joval bout, A Glass of Wine brings all the Secret out. Methinks I view him in a Rapture sit, And thus Express himself — Last Night, last Night,

That happy Night when in the tender Arms, Of a Kind She I lay Dissolv'd in Charms; Fill me a Bumper, here's her Health, Dear Will, Methinks I feel the Killing Transports still: What Prince would not his Dignity lay by, To be one Night but half so blest as I? All Young and Charming may she ever be, But ne're be kind to any Man but me. He takes great care to see her Health go round, With repetitions of the pleasing Sound; To the obliging Fair One, tho' unknown, Each takes his over-flowing Brimmer down. At last one subtle Youth by sly Disguise, Desires to know who this kind Goddess is; The Spark no•• wary of the sly Trapan, (For Wine no Secret kept, nor ever can;) Softly in his Ear relates, without Disguise or Art, The whole Intreague in every part; Describes her Person, and what Cloaths she wears, What Pew she sits in when she goes to Prayers: Perhaps reveals her Quality and Name, And when he next must quench his am'rous Flame. Thus is a Ladies Reputation spoil'd, And her good Name is with her Vertue soil'd.

But Men in Wickedness still further go, And to their prating Tongues no bounds allow;

Those Women whom with all their Art and Skill, They cannot Flatter to their looser Will: Finding their Vertue (which they call their Pride,) Strongly resist the importuning Tide: They will at least in Glory have their share, And tell the World they have enjoy'd the Fair: And tho' they ne're could lure 'em to their Crimes, Yet swear they've lain with 'em a hundred times. Witness the truth of this each Sparkish Beau, Who boasts of Blessings he did never know▪ Who from our Sex no Favours ever had, But those of Vizor Mask, or Chamber-maid: Yet he of Mistresses has such a store, (That the Grand Sultan scarcely e're had more.) At Court a few, and they be sure must be, Pretended, if not real Quality: But in the City scarce a Street or Lane, Which does not some obliging She contain; Whose tender Heart was caught, we must confess, By's charming Language, but more charming Dress: Incorrigible Fopp, whose Impudence Alone supplies his mighty want of Sense, And doubly wretched She whose Heart is slain, By such an Ape, or Eccho of a Man.

More Mis'ries still our wretched Sex endure, And Mis'ries which can ne're admit of cure; Nature when first she form'd our Minds took care, To place the softest, tenderest Passions there.

Hence 'tis, our Thoughts like Tinder, apt to fire, Are often caught with loving kind Desire; But Custom does such rigid Laws impose, We must not for our Lives the thing disclose. If one of us a lovely Youth has seen, And streight some tender Thoughts to feel begin; Which liking does insensibly improve It self to longing fond impatient Love. The Damsel in distress must still remain, Tortur'd and wrack'd with the tormenting Pain Custom and Modesty, much more severe, Strictly forbid our Passion to declare. If we reveal, then Decency's provok't, If kept, then we are with the Secret choakt; Besides, to Baseness Men are so ally'd, So lifted up with Vanity and Pride, That should a Maid with Sighs and Blushes tell, The restless Love she does for Strephon feel; Her sad Distress he would regard no more, Than Rich Men do Petitions from the Poor: Whilst wretched She in vain for Pity sues, He leaves her to frequent the Publick Stews; So slights the Vertue which he should adore, To kneel at Feet of Mercenary Whore.

The Charms of Wit and Beauty seldom fail, O're the most stubborn Temper to prevail;

To which if Youth and Vertue are ally'd Youth without Art, and Vertue without Pride. What store of Captives to her Conquering Eyes, May she expect, who has these Qualities? But if she wants what Charms above them all, The mighty Blessings which we Mony call; In dull obscurity she long may live, And Visits rarely as the Dead receive; Till Reverend Age her Beauty has decay'd, And she becomes an Old dispised Maid: Unless seduc'd, and past all sense of shame, She prostitutes her Vertue and her Fame, And yields her self to every looser Flame. I pity from my Soul th' unhappy Maid, By Arts of Men, and her own Wants betray'd, To act a Crime she never knew before, And has the choice to Starve or be a Whore: Oh Poverty ! thou undermining Ill, Whose fatal Damp too oft does Vertue kill. How many thousands of our Sex there are, Whose Minds were Vertuous, as their Faces Fair; Devoted now to shameless Infamy, Occasion'd only by their Poverty: But leaving them as Blotts upon our Race, To reap the Fruits of Lewdness and Disgrace; Let us observe another Scene of Life, And view the Blessings which attend a Wife.

If Custom we Accuse as too severe, In Impositions when we Virgins are; What Yoaks and Fetters does the Female choose, Who enters in the Matrimonial Noose? To be the Partner of anothers Flame, Gives up her Self, her Fortune, and her Name, Her Hours of soft Repose and Liberty, Nay, her own will then cease to be free; For what Commands may not a Husband lay, When the Wifes part, is only to Obey? And we the blest Effects may see each hour, Of such unbounded Arbitrary Power.

If Young, and by her Inclinations led To taste the Pleasures of the Marriage Bed, And has as Partner in the Nuptial Joys, The Youth above all Mankind her Choice; Pleasures about her in such Numbers throng, Pleasures which cannot be express'd by Tongue: Her Spouse and She, each Minutes time improve, And Day and Night is but one Scene of Love; They kiss in Publick, fondly without measure, And think they ne're can have enough of Pleasure. With scorn they look on unprovided Pairs, And think no Happiness so great as theirs:

But ah! the young and lovely Bride too soon Perceives the waining of the Hony-Moon: Her Passion by Indearments still improves, And till the more enjoy'd, the more she loves; While the ingrateful Wretch she Husband calls, By little slights shews how his Fancy palls, By frequent use grown weary of her Charms, He comes with dull Indifference to her Arms. If here the Humour stops, some hopes are left, (Provided he's not of all sense bereft;) By Arts of kind Indearments to recover, Th' expiring Passion of the Husband Lover. Wild Beasts by roughness may endure the Chain, But milder means are us'd to soften Man: Kind melting Kisses, modest, yet desiring, May raise to Life a Passion Just expiring; And he's a Monster Affrick ne're saw, Whose frozen Mind such kind Heats cannot thaw.

But if by strange insensible Degrees, (The Bride in vain striving by Arts to please;) The Husband should (by his own baseness led) From slight Dislikes, at last forsake her Bed: In solitary Sheets she pines and grieves, While like a Rake-hell Libertine he lives, Leaving his Spouse in solitude to mourn, Whilst he does for some stubborn Strumpet burn;

With whom his vacant Hours are all employ'd, And dear-bought Pleasures by the Brute enjoy'd: But his wild Rambles did I Pleasures call? Pleasures which with them bear the Scorpions Tail; By such Delights they very often gain A moments Pleasure, but an Age of Pain; To' th' Marriage Bed th' Infection goes sometimes, And the Wife suffers for the Husband's Crimes.

But if one constant to the Nuptial Vow, Does not himself such Liberties allow; A far much greater Evil oft ensues, For there's no Woman if she were to Chuse, But likes a Rambling, 'fore a Jealous Spouse. The ones wild Frolicks may in time be cur'd, But Jealousie can never be endur'd. Let Priests the Peoples Ears amuse with Story, But sure on Earth there is no Purgatory; Like living with a Man, whose jealous Eyes Must watch a Wife in all her Privacies: Better t'ad been on her Wedding Day, She had descended to Sepulchral Clay, Than with a Jealous Coxcomb all her life, Have worn that slavish Epithet, a Wife.

If she does Pains of Purgatory feel, Who's Husbands Jealous — She has sure a Hell;

Who must surrender all her Youth and Charms For sake of Gold, up to an Old Man's Arms, With Tales of Death none need affright her mind, Since Day and Night she does its Image find.

For Husbands Faults poor Wives still bear the blame, Does he Debauch in Punck, or Wine, or Game? And so is brought to Want and Poverty, The base censorious World does quickly Cry: We thought indeed this Match would ne're prove good, Since his proud Wife wore such a High Commode, Forgetting his Night-rambles up and down, To all the Topping Taverns of the Town, Wherein one Week he spends more Mony Clear, Then would provide Head-dresses all the Year. But I as well may indiscreetly try, To count the Stars which twinkle in the Skie, As go about with leasure to relate, The Mischiefs which attend the Female Married State.

How oft have Widows, who have broke the Chain, Been tempted to the Fatal Noose again? By ugly Tongues of false Dissembling Men, And tho' once cheated, venture once again: Widows are Baits for Younger Brothers laid, To patch a Ruin'd Fortune, or a Trade; Experience in the Sreets proclaims it loud, That from the great and Num'rous Female Croud,

Widows like Deer, are singled from the Herd, To be undone, which Suiters call prefer'd: They tell' em that they hate the Skittish Maid, Theyr for a Womans Judgment pois'd and weigh'd, Till they have lur'd' em to the fatal Curse, And they are theirs for better and for worse. (But ev'ry Day's Relation makes it common, To love the Mony, when they hate the Woman.) Some Tawdry Youthful Punck is then maintain'd, With good old Gold in former Days she gain'd. Or if she Dies, which very oft does follow, A Heifer purchas'd with the Old Cows Tallow.

These Sylvia, these are Dismal Truths to tell, But ah! these Truths are known but too too well; Oh! could I change my Sex, but tis in vain, To wish my self, or think to be a Man, Like that wild Creature, I would madly Rove, Through all the Feilds of Galantry and Love; Heighten the Pleasures of the Day and Night, Dissolve in Joys and Surfeit with Delight, Not tameley like a Woman, wish and pray, And sigh my pretious Minutes all away. Woman a Ceature one may justly call, Natures and Mans, and Fortunes Tennis-Ball, Woman — What Noise is that? —Oh Heavens! a Man! Assist my Blushes.

At which away she ran, Swift as the Wind; nor could I too this hour, Find out who was this Female Confessor; 'Twas time to go, the Charming Pratler gone, But thought, as I was homeward jogging on, In all my Converse with the Female Kind, I ne're till this time did Woman find, Freely without reserve to speak her mind.