Husband, thou dull unpitied Miscreant,
Wedded to Noise, to Misery and Want:
Sold an eternal Vassal for thy Life,
Oblig’d to cherish, and to hate thy Wife:
Drudge on till Fifty at thy own Expence,
Breathe out thy Life in one Impertinence:
Repeat thy loath’d Embraces every Night,
Prompted to act by Duty, not Delight:
Christen thy froward Bantling once a Year,
And carefully thy spurious Issue rear:
Go once a Week to see the Brat at Nurse,
And let the young Impostor drain thy Purse:
Hedge-Sparrow-like, what Cuckows have begot,
Do thou maintain, incorrigible Sot.
O! I could curse the Pimp, (who could do less?)
He’s beneath Pity, and beyond Redress.
Pox on him, let him go, what can I say?
Anathema’s on him are thrown away:
The Wretch is marry’d and hath known the worst;
And his great Blessing is, he can’t be curst.
Marriage! O Hell and Furies! name it not;
Hence, ye holy Cheats, a Plot, a Plot!
Marriage! ’Tis but a licens’d Way to sin;
A Noose to catch religious Woodcocks in:
Or the Nick-Name of Love’s malicious Fiend,
Begot in Hell to persecute Mankind:
’Tis the Destroyer of our Peace and Health,
Mispender of our Time, our Strength and Wealth;
The Enemy of Valour, Wit, Mirth, all
That we can virtuous, good, or pleasant call:
By Day ’tis nothing but an endless Noise,
By Night the Eccho of forgotten Joys:
Abroad the Sport and Wonder of the Crowd,
At Home the hourly Breach of what they vow’d:
In Youth it’s Opium to our lustful Rage,
Which sleeps awhile, but wakes again in Age:
It heaps on all Men much, but useless Care;
For with more Trouble they less happy are.
Ye Gods! that Man, by his own Slavish Law,
Should on himself such Inconvenience draw.
If he would wiser Nature’s Laws obey,
Those chalk him out a far more pleasant Way,
When lusty Youth and fragrant Wine conspire
To fan the Blood into a gen’rous Fire.
We must not think the Gallant will endure
The puissant Issue of his Calenture,
Nor always in his single Pleasures burn,
Tho’ Nature’s Handmaid sometimes serves the Turn:
No: He must have a sprightly, youthful Wench,
In equal Floods of Love his Flames to quench:
One that will hold him in her clasping Arms,
And in that Circle all his Spirits charms;
That with new Motion and unpractis’d Art,
Can raise his Soul, and reinsnare his Heart.
Hence spring the Noble, Fortunate, and Great,
Always begot in Passion and in Heat:
But the dull Offspring of the Marriage-Bed,
What is it! but a human Piece of Lead;
A sottish Lump ingender’d of all Ills;
Begot like Cats against their Fathers Wills.
If it be bastardis’d, ’tis doubly spoil’d,
The Mother’s Fear’s entail’d upon the Child.
Thus whether illegitimate, or not,
Cowards and Fools in Wedlock are begot.
Let no enabled Soul himself debase
By lawful Means to bastardise his Race;
But if he must pay Nature’s Debt in Kind,
To check his eager Passion, let him find
Some willing Female out, who, tho’ she be
The very Dregs and Scum of Infamy:
Tho’ she be Linsey-Woolsey, Bawd, and Whore,
Close-stool to Venus, Nature’s Common-Shore,
Impudent, Foolish, Bawdy, and Disease,
The Sunday Crack of Suburb-Prentices;
What then! She’s better than a Wife by half;
And if thour’t still unmarried, thou art safe.
With Whores thou canst but venture; what thou’st lost,
May be redeem’d again with Care and Cost;
But a damn’d Wife, by inevitable Fate,
Destroys Soul, Body, Credit, and Estate.
[A
LETTER
FROM
Artemisa in the Town,
TO
CLOE in the Country.]
Cloe, by your Command, in Verse I write:
Shortly you’ll bid me ride astride, and fight:
Such Talents better with our Sex agree,
Than lofty Flights of dangerous Poetry.
Among the Men, I mean the Men of Wit,
(At least, they past for such before they writ)
How many bold Advent’rers for the Bays,
Proudly designing large Returns of Praise;
Who durst that stormy, pathless World explore,
Were soon dash’d back, and wreck’d on the dull Shore,
Broke of that little Stock they had before.
⎫
⎬
⎭
Dear Artemisa! Poetry’s a Snare:
Bedlam has many Mansions; have a Care:
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad:
You think your self inspir’d, he thinks you mad:
Consider too, ’twill be discreetly done,
To make your self the Fiddle of the Town:
To find th’ ill-humour’d Pleasure at their Need;
Curst when you fail, and scorn’d when you succeed.