 | The Works of Mr. John Oldham |  |
139
A SATYR
Upon a WOMAN, who by her Falshood and Scorn was the Death of my Friend.
No she shall ne're escape, if Gods there be,
Unless they perjur'd grow, and false as she;
Though no strange Judgment yet the Murd'ress seize
To punish her, and quit the partial Skies:
Though no revenging lightning yet has flasht
From thence, that might her criminal beauties blast:
Tho they in their old lustre still prevail,
By no disease, nor guilt it self made pale.
Guilt, which should blackest Moors themselves but own,
Would make through all their night new blushes dawn:
Though that kind soul, who now augments the blest,
Thither too soon by her unkindness chas'd.
(Where may it be her small'st, and lightest doom,
(For that's not half my curse) never to come)
Though he, when prompted by the high'st despair,
Ne're mention'd her without an Hymn, or Prayer,
And could by all her scorn be forc'd no more
Than Martyrs to revile what they adore.
Who, had he curst her with his dying breath;
Had done but just, and Heaven had forgave:
Tho ill-made Law no Sentence has ordain'd
For her, no Statute has her Guilt arraign'd.
(For Hangmen, Womens Scorn, and Doctors skill,
All by a licenc'd way of murder kill.)
Tho she from Justice of all these go free
And boast perhaps in her success, and cry,
'Twas but a little harmless perjury:
Yet think she not, she still secure shall prove,
Or that none dare avenge an injur'd Love:
I rise in Judgement, am to be to her
Both Witness, Judge, and Executioner:
Arm'd with dire Satyr, and resentful spite,
I come to haunt her with the ghosts of Wit.
My Ink unbid starts out, and flies on her,
Like blood upon some touching murderer:
And shou'd that fail, rather than want, I wou'd,
Like Haggs, to curse her, write in my own blood.
Unless they perjur'd grow, and false as she;
Though no strange Judgment yet the Murd'ress seize
To punish her, and quit the partial Skies:
Though no revenging lightning yet has flasht
From thence, that might her criminal beauties blast:
Tho they in their old lustre still prevail,
By no disease, nor guilt it self made pale.
140
Would make through all their night new blushes dawn:
Though that kind soul, who now augments the blest,
Thither too soon by her unkindness chas'd.
(Where may it be her small'st, and lightest doom,
(For that's not half my curse) never to come)
Though he, when prompted by the high'st despair,
Ne're mention'd her without an Hymn, or Prayer,
And could by all her scorn be forc'd no more
Than Martyrs to revile what they adore.
Who, had he curst her with his dying breath;
Had done but just, and Heaven had forgave:
Tho ill-made Law no Sentence has ordain'd
For her, no Statute has her Guilt arraign'd.
(For Hangmen, Womens Scorn, and Doctors skill,
All by a licenc'd way of murder kill.)
141
And boast perhaps in her success, and cry,
'Twas but a little harmless perjury:
Yet think she not, she still secure shall prove,
Or that none dare avenge an injur'd Love:
I rise in Judgement, am to be to her
Both Witness, Judge, and Executioner:
Arm'd with dire Satyr, and resentful spite,
I come to haunt her with the ghosts of Wit.
My Ink unbid starts out, and flies on her,
Like blood upon some touching murderer:
And shou'd that fail, rather than want, I wou'd,
Like Haggs, to curse her, write in my own blood.
Ye spightful pow'rs (if any there can be,
That boast a worse, and keener spite than I)
Assist with Malice, and your mighty aid
My sworn Revenge, and help me Rhime her dead:
Grant I may fix such brands of Infamy,
So plain, so deeply grav'd on her, that she,
Her Skill, Patches, nor Paint, all joyn'd can hide,
And which shall lasting as her Soul abide:
Grant my strong hate may such strong poison cast,
That every breath may taint, and rot, and blast,
Till one large Gangrene quite o'respread her fame
With foul contagion; till her odious name,
Spit at, and curst by every mouth like mine,
Be terror to her self, and all her line.
That boast a worse, and keener spite than I)
Assist with Malice, and your mighty aid
My sworn Revenge, and help me Rhime her dead:
Grant I may fix such brands of Infamy,
So plain, so deeply grav'd on her, that she,
142
And which shall lasting as her Soul abide:
Grant my strong hate may such strong poison cast,
That every breath may taint, and rot, and blast,
Till one large Gangrene quite o'respread her fame
With foul contagion; till her odious name,
Spit at, and curst by every mouth like mine,
Be terror to her self, and all her line.
Vilest of that viler Sex, who damn'd us all!
Ordain'd to cause, and plague us for our fall!
WOMAN! nay worse! for she can nought be said,
But Mummy by some Dev'l inhabited:
Not made in Heaven's Mint, but base coin'd,
She wears an humane image stampt on Fiend;
And whoso Marriage would with her contract,
Is Witch by Law, and that a meer compact:
Her Soul (if any Soul in her there be)
By Hell was breath'd into her in a lye,
And its whole stock of falshood there was lent,
As if hereafter to be true it meant:
Bawd Nature taught her jilting, when she made
And by her make, design'd her for the trade:
Hence 'twas she daub'd her with a painted Face,
That she at once might better cheat, and please:
All those gay charming looks, that court the eye,
Are but an ambush to hide treachery;
Mischief adorn'd with pomp, and smooth disguise,
A painted skin stuff'd full of guile and lyes;
Within a gawdy Case, a nasty Soul,
Like T--- of quality in a gilt Close-stool:
Such on a Cloud those flatt'ring colours are,
Which only serve to dress a Tempest fair.
So Men upon this Earth's fair surface dwell,
Within are Fiends, and at the center Hell:
Court-promises, the Leagues, which States-men make
With more convenience, and more ease to break,
The Faith, a Jesuit in allegiance swears,
Or a Town-jilt to keeping Coxcombs bears,
Are firm, and certain all, compar'd with hers:
Early in falshood, at her Font she lied,
And should ev'n then for Perjury been tried:
Her Conscience stretch'd, and open as the Stews,
But laughs at Oaths, and plays with solemn Vows.
And at her mouth swallows down perjur'd breath,
More glib than bits of Lechery beneath:
Less serious known, when she doth most protest,
Than thoughts of arrantest Buffoons in jest:
More cheap, than the vile mercenariest Squire,
That plies for Half-crown Fees at Westminster,
And trades in staple-Oaths, and Swears to hire:
Less Guilt than hers, less breach of Oath, and Word
Has stood aloft, and look'd through Penance board;
And he that trusts her in a Death-bed Prayer,
Has Faith to merit, and save any thing, but her.
Ordain'd to cause, and plague us for our fall!
WOMAN! nay worse! for she can nought be said,
But Mummy by some Dev'l inhabited:
Not made in Heaven's Mint, but base coin'd,
She wears an humane image stampt on Fiend;
And whoso Marriage would with her contract,
Is Witch by Law, and that a meer compact:
Her Soul (if any Soul in her there be)
By Hell was breath'd into her in a lye,
And its whole stock of falshood there was lent,
As if hereafter to be true it meant:
143
And by her make, design'd her for the trade:
Hence 'twas she daub'd her with a painted Face,
That she at once might better cheat, and please:
All those gay charming looks, that court the eye,
Are but an ambush to hide treachery;
Mischief adorn'd with pomp, and smooth disguise,
A painted skin stuff'd full of guile and lyes;
Within a gawdy Case, a nasty Soul,
Like T--- of quality in a gilt Close-stool:
Such on a Cloud those flatt'ring colours are,
Which only serve to dress a Tempest fair.
So Men upon this Earth's fair surface dwell,
Within are Fiends, and at the center Hell:
Court-promises, the Leagues, which States-men make
With more convenience, and more ease to break,
The Faith, a Jesuit in allegiance swears,
Or a Town-jilt to keeping Coxcombs bears,
Are firm, and certain all, compar'd with hers:
144
And should ev'n then for Perjury been tried:
Her Conscience stretch'd, and open as the Stews,
But laughs at Oaths, and plays with solemn Vows.
And at her mouth swallows down perjur'd breath,
More glib than bits of Lechery beneath:
Less serious known, when she doth most protest,
Than thoughts of arrantest Buffoons in jest:
More cheap, than the vile mercenariest Squire,
That plies for Half-crown Fees at Westminster,
And trades in staple-Oaths, and Swears to hire:
Less Guilt than hers, less breach of Oath, and Word
Has stood aloft, and look'd through Penance board;
And he that trusts her in a Death-bed Prayer,
Has Faith to merit, and save any thing, but her.
But since her Guilt description does out-go;
I'll try if it out-strip my Curses too;
Curses, which may they equal my just hate,
My wish, and her desert, be each so great,
Each heard like Pray'rs, and Heaven make 'em fate.
I'll try if it out-strip my Curses too;
145
My wish, and her desert, be each so great,
Each heard like Pray'rs, and Heaven make 'em fate.
First, for her Beauties, which the Mischief brought,
May she affected, they be borrow'd thought,
By her own hand, not that of Nature wrought:
Her Credit, Honour, Portion, Health, and those
Prove light, and frail, as her broke Faith, and Vows.
Some base unnam'd Disease, her Carkass foul,
And make her Body ugly, as her Soul.
Cankers, and Ulcers eat her, till she be,
Shun'd like Infection, loath'd like Infamy.
Strength quite expir'd, may she alone retain
The snuff of Life, may that unquench'd remain,
As in the damn'd, to keep her fresh for pain:
Hot Lust light on her, and the plague of Pride
On that, this ever scorn'd, as that denied:
Ach, Anguish, horror, grief, dishonour, shame
Pursue at once her body, soul, and fame:
If e're the Devil-love must enter her
(For nothing sure but Fiends can enter there)
May she a just and true tormenter find,
And that like an ill-conscience rack her mind:
Be some Diseas'd, and ugly wretch her fate,
She doom'd to love of one, whom all else hate.
May he hate her, and may her destiny
Be to despair, and yet love on, and die;
Or to invent some wittier punishment,
May he, to plague her, out of spite consent;
May the old fumbler, though disabled quite,
Have strength to give her Claps, but no delight:
May he of her unjustly jealous be
For one that's worse, and uglier far than he:
May's Impotence balk, and torment her lust,
Yet scarcely her to dreams, or wishes trust:
Forc'd to be chast, may she suspected be,
Share none o'th' Pleasure, all the Infamy.
May she affected, they be borrow'd thought,
By her own hand, not that of Nature wrought:
Her Credit, Honour, Portion, Health, and those
Prove light, and frail, as her broke Faith, and Vows.
Some base unnam'd Disease, her Carkass foul,
And make her Body ugly, as her Soul.
Cankers, and Ulcers eat her, till she be,
Shun'd like Infection, loath'd like Infamy.
Strength quite expir'd, may she alone retain
The snuff of Life, may that unquench'd remain,
As in the damn'd, to keep her fresh for pain:
Hot Lust light on her, and the plague of Pride
On that, this ever scorn'd, as that denied:
Ach, Anguish, horror, grief, dishonour, shame
Pursue at once her body, soul, and fame:
146
(For nothing sure but Fiends can enter there)
May she a just and true tormenter find,
And that like an ill-conscience rack her mind:
Be some Diseas'd, and ugly wretch her fate,
She doom'd to love of one, whom all else hate.
May he hate her, and may her destiny
Be to despair, and yet love on, and die;
Or to invent some wittier punishment,
May he, to plague her, out of spite consent;
May the old fumbler, though disabled quite,
Have strength to give her Claps, but no delight:
May he of her unjustly jealous be
For one that's worse, and uglier far than he:
May's Impotence balk, and torment her lust,
Yet scarcely her to dreams, or wishes trust:
Forc'd to be chast, may she suspected be,
Share none o'th' Pleasure, all the Infamy.
147
In fine, that I all curses may compleat
(For I've but curs'd in jest, raillied yet)
Whate're the Sex deserves, or feels, or fears,
May all those plagues be hers, and only hers;
Whate're great Favourites turn'd out of doors,
Scorn'd Lovers, bilk'd and disappointed Whores,
Or losing Gamesters vent, what Curses e're
Are spoke by sinners raving in despair:
All those fall on her, as they're all her due,
Till spite can't think, nor Heav'n inflict anew:
May then (for once I will be kind, and pray)
No madness take her use of Sense away;
But may she in full strength of Reason be,
To feel, and understand her misery;
Plagu'd so, till she think damning a release,
And humbly pray to go to Hell for ease:
Yet may not all these suff'rings here attone
Her sin, and may she still go sinning on,
Tick up in Perjury, and run o'th Score,
Till on her Soul she can get trust no more:
Then may she Stupid, and Repentless die,
And Heav'n it self forgive no more than I,
But so be damn'd of meer necessity.
(For I've but curs'd in jest, raillied yet)
Whate're the Sex deserves, or feels, or fears,
May all those plagues be hers, and only hers;
Whate're great Favourites turn'd out of doors,
Scorn'd Lovers, bilk'd and disappointed Whores,
Or losing Gamesters vent, what Curses e're
Are spoke by sinners raving in despair:
All those fall on her, as they're all her due,
Till spite can't think, nor Heav'n inflict anew:
May then (for once I will be kind, and pray)
No madness take her use of Sense away;
But may she in full strength of Reason be,
To feel, and understand her misery;
Plagu'd so, till she think damning a release,
And humbly pray to go to Hell for ease:
Yet may not all these suff'rings here attone
Her sin, and may she still go sinning on,
148
Till on her Soul she can get trust no more:
Then may she Stupid, and Repentless die,
And Heav'n it self forgive no more than I,
But so be damn'd of meer necessity.
| The Works of Mr. John Oldham | |