 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
264
THE RECANTATION.
To a LADY.
Forgive, Aurelia, my audacious Muse,
That durst, in Tragic Scenes, your Sex abuse:
'Twas Paricide, I own, on any Ground,
With impious Satire, Female Fame to wound.
Who dares deny your Sex the better Birth?
For you of Man were made, as Man of Earth.
When you were form'd, Creation first had rest!
A Sign, th' Almighty thought your Make the best
Of all his Labours! Beast shou'd Homage do
To Sov'reign Man; but Man should bend to You:
Worship is every Woman's rightful Due.
If we survey your outward Frame, how fair!
How soft! how glorious! what a Heav'n is There!
Nor are our Souls more excellent than yours?
Souls know no Sexes! boast their common Pow'rs!
Have we more Knowledge? No, it cannot be;
Ye first were knowing! first attack'd the Tree!
And, sure, the Wise, the Pious, and the Strong,
Must own the Conquests of your Eyes, and Tongue:
Let but a Lip, a Hand, dispute the Field—
What Stoick stands unmov'd? what Cynick does not yield?
That durst, in Tragic Scenes, your Sex abuse:
'Twas Paricide, I own, on any Ground,
With impious Satire, Female Fame to wound.
Who dares deny your Sex the better Birth?
For you of Man were made, as Man of Earth.
When you were form'd, Creation first had rest!
A Sign, th' Almighty thought your Make the best
Of all his Labours! Beast shou'd Homage do
To Sov'reign Man; but Man should bend to You:
Worship is every Woman's rightful Due.
265
How soft! how glorious! what a Heav'n is There!
Nor are our Souls more excellent than yours?
Souls know no Sexes! boast their common Pow'rs!
Have we more Knowledge? No, it cannot be;
Ye first were knowing! first attack'd the Tree!
And, sure, the Wise, the Pious, and the Strong,
Must own the Conquests of your Eyes, and Tongue:
Let but a Lip, a Hand, dispute the Field—
What Stoick stands unmov'd? what Cynick does not yield?
No more, Aurelia, shall my Muse rebel;
No more deny your Sex does most excell.
What Hand profane a Hag for Venus paints?
And who, but Atheists, rail against the Saints?
What Fools are Men in Pedigree of Names,
To chuse the Father's, while the Mother's claims
The first Regard? Hers is more honour'd Blood,
Wou'd fix our Heraldry, and make out Generation good.
No more deny your Sex does most excell.
What Hand profane a Hag for Venus paints?
And who, but Atheists, rail against the Saints?
What Fools are Men in Pedigree of Names,
To chuse the Father's, while the Mother's claims
266
Wou'd fix our Heraldry, and make out Generation good.
Happy the Swain, whose Passion you shall crown;
Who, join'd to you, may call the Sex his own;
For, sure, the whole Perfections of the Fair
Meet in your Mind, and shine unsullied There.
Who, join'd to you, may call the Sex his own;
For, sure, the whole Perfections of the Fair
Meet in your Mind, and shine unsullied There.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |