Nuptial Dialogues and Debates Or, An Useful Prospect of the felicities and discomforts of a marry'd life, Incident to all Degrees, from the Throne to the Cottage. Containing, Many great Examples of Love, Piety, Prudence, Justice, and all the excellent Vertues, that largely contribute to the true Happiness of Wedlock. Drawn from the Lives of our own Princes, Nobility, and other Quality, in Prosperity and Adversity. Also the fantastical Humours of all Fops, Coquets, Bullies, Jilts, fond Fools, and Wantons; old Fumblers, barren Ladies, Misers, parsimonious Wives, Ninnies, Sluts and Termagants; drunken Husbands, toaping Gossips, schismatical Precisians, and devout Hypocrites of all sorts. Digested into serious, merry, and satyrical Poems, wherein both Sexes, in all Stations, are reminded of their Duty, and taught how to be happy in a Matrimonial State. In Two Volumes. By the Author of the London Spy [i.e. Edward Ward] |
 | I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. | Dialogue XXVII. Between a High-Church Gentleman and his
Low-Church Lady, about the difference of of their Opinions.
|
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
 | Nuptial Dialogues and Debates |  |
238
Dialogue XXVII. Between a High-Church Gentleman and his Low-Church Lady, about the difference of of their Opinions.
Husband.Come, come, my Dear, forsake your Canting Tribe,
Marriage has made you now my crooked Rib,
My Flesh can brook no Lame Dissenting Bone,
Join with the rest, or you my Side disown;
A dislocated stubborn Rib I hate.
Prithee, to Church, and that will set thee streight.
Wife.
D'ye think I'll go to Mass, not I, indeed,
I'll be no Convert to a Popish Creed:
No, Satan, I defy thy wicked Power,
No Babylonian Whore shall draw me to her;
I hate her Smock, her Porridge, and her Pipes,
Her Butcher's-Sleeves, her Crosses, and her Types,
Her Pagan Altars, and her Dagon Priests,
Her Easter Off'rings, and her Christmas Feasts,
239
Her Pancake Tuesdays, and her starving Lents;
I'd sooner chuse to bear your utmost hate,
Than damn my precious Soul at such a rate;
Therefore, pray Husband, let's have no Dispute,
For Fire and Faggot should not bring me to't.
Husband.
Thy stiff-neck'd Guide has taught thee wondrous well,
Something I find thou'st learn'd, and that's to Rail;
Are these the Bell'wings of thy Hornbook Dunce,
Who, like ripe bottled Ale, must Froth and Bounce,
To please the gaping Fools who sit in Throngs,
To catch the Bleatings of his painful Lungs.
How easily, alas, are Fools betray'd
To villify the Good and chuse the Bad?
How soon will shallow Reason quit its place,
For the bald empty sound of Saving Grace,
Breath'd thro' the Gullet of an Ass that Brays,
And hideously confounds whate'er he says;
Empty as Eccho, full of only Voice,
Dull as the Brazen-Head that spoke but thrice.
Something I find thou'st learn'd, and that's to Rail;
Are these the Bell'wings of thy Hornbook Dunce,
Who, like ripe bottled Ale, must Froth and Bounce,
To please the gaping Fools who sit in Throngs,
To catch the Bleatings of his painful Lungs.
How easily, alas, are Fools betray'd
To villify the Good and chuse the Bad?
How soon will shallow Reason quit its place,
For the bald empty sound of Saving Grace,
Breath'd thro' the Gullet of an Ass that Brays,
And hideously confounds whate'er he says;
Empty as Eccho, full of only Voice,
Dull as the Brazen-Head that spoke but thrice.
And you believe the Nonsence you have heard,
Squeez'd out between Hawk-Nose and Peaked-Beard,
By a grave doating Wizard, who forsook
His Weaver's Shuttle for a Changling-Flock,
That by Pretences to a heav'nly Gift,
The Saint inspir'd might make a better shift,
Glean once a Quarter from each Blockhead's Store,
And live himself at Ease, who starv'd before.
Squeez'd out between Hawk-Nose and Peaked-Beard,
By a grave doating Wizard, who forsook
His Weaver's Shuttle for a Changling-Flock,
That by Pretences to a heav'nly Gift,
The Saint inspir'd might make a better shift,
Glean once a Quarter from each Blockhead's Store,
And live himself at Ease, who starv'd before.
240
Shame on the stupid Ign'rance of your Youth,
To be misled by Nonsence from the Truth;
As if a canting Owl, in Garret bred,
To wind off Silk or manage Skains of Thread,
Unskill'd in Books, taught only to dispute
The diff'rent Prizes of his Warp and Shoot,
Should more of Scripture and Religion know,
Than those who to that learned Fountain go,
Where sacred Truths in Chrystal Channels flow.
To be misled by Nonsence from the Truth;
As if a canting Owl, in Garret bred,
To wind off Silk or manage Skains of Thread,
Unskill'd in Books, taught only to dispute
The diff'rent Prizes of his Warp and Shoot,
Should more of Scripture and Religion know,
Than those who to that learned Fountain go,
Where sacred Truths in Chrystal Channels flow.
Wife.
You'd need find Fault, indeed, and say that I
Am taught to only rail and villify,
When you reflect that I the Church asperse,
I'm sure the Kettle calls the Pot Black arse.
How can you thus abuse so good a Saint,
So heavenly a Guide as Mr. Quaint,
So Grave, so Pious, and as Just a Man,
As ever preach'd 'twixt Bersheba and Dan?
What tho', perhaps, when young, he was not bred
At what you Churchmen call the Fountain-head?
Can Holy Men to Knowledge never rise,
But they must pass your Popish Versities?
How came the Prophets, pray, to leave behind
Those Holy Truths which we in Scripture find?
I've heard they ne'er were whip'd at Grammar-School,
Nor taught long Lessons, or to speak by Rule,
Yet they (Good-Men) all Christians must allow,
Were wiser far than all your Bishops now;
241
Some to catch Fish, and that's no learned Trade,
Yet they commanded were to go and teach
All Nations, and without a Book could Preach,
Much better than your Priests, who strain their Throats
To pray by Mass Books and to preach by Notes.
Why then mayn't Holy-Men from Looms be call'd,
As well as Peter from the Nets he haul'd,
And be inspir'd, like him, to shew aright,
The Path that leads to everlasting Light.
Husband.
Well said, my Dear, you've let me see at once,
How Fools are taught to vindicate a Dunce,
Who has no other way to be admir'd,
But to pretend a Call and seem Inspir'd.
So Pagan Kings, to hide their mean Descent,
Back'd by their Priests, strange Stories would invent,
That they were born of Heav'n to rule a State,
Tho' brawny Clown begot the spurious Brat.
Just so your Guides, proud Hypocrites at Heart,
Who from their Garrets into Pulpits start,
Pretend Commission by a Call unknown,
To be, by Grace, adopted Heaven's Son;
And that those Myst'ries from the Fools conceal'd,
Are only to the yawning Knaves reveal'd.
What tho' the Apostles from their Nets were made
Fishers of Men, as 'tis in Scripture said;
Their Holy Lives, the Doctrine that they taught,
Their pious Works, the Miracles they wrought,
242
With Gifts that could not be by Art acquir'd;
They nothing taught but what's divinely Good,
And ev'ry distant Language understood;
But your illit'rate Dunce, your groaning Block,
Who whoops and hollows to his brainless Flock,
With all his Gifts that labour in his Crown,
No Language understands, nay, not his own,
But cons his Lesson till by heart 'tis got,
And, Parrot-like, talks Scripture but by rote;
Therefore he tells you 'tis a Crime to look,
In time of Preaching, on the Sacred Book,
Because he knows he should be run a-ground,
In reading what he ventures to expound:
His Hems, his Hesitations, and his Cough,
Would drown the Sense, and make the Bigots laugh,
To hear him mispronounce Old Eliazer,
And read, perhaps, Bullbeggar for Belshazer.
I cannot longer let you tread amiss,
In following such an empty Guide as this.
You must consider, since you marry'd are,
Your Soul is now become your Husband's Care,
And 'tis my Nuptial Duty to explode
Your Female Errors and regard your Good;
Therefore, I say, you must to Church repair,
And learn the Holy Worship practis'd there:
For when Experience makes you once more wise,
You'll hug those Holy Things you now despise,
And thank me then that I've redeem'd your Soul,
From the vile Clutches of an ign'rant Owl.
243
O! bless me, sure you will not serve me so,
Must I to Mass and Purgatory go?
I'll to no Popish painted Altar bow,
Or kneel, then rise and stand I know not how:
I'll not be tutor'd, catechiz'd, or taught,
To Jabber like a Magpye, G*d knows what:
The very Noise, I'm sure, would make me faint,
No, no, I'll trust my Soul with Mr. Quaint,
That godly Man, who loves and fears the Lord,
That faithful Teacher of the Holy Word,
Who, when he Preaches, or Expounds, or Prays,
Tells, in plain English, what the Scripture says.
I'll pin no Faith upon a High-Church Gown,
Altho' my Body's yours, my Soul's my own;
And, by the help of Grace, it ne'er shall be
Seduc'd to such profane Idolatry:
I'll still be steadfast, 'tis in vain to teaze,
But you may hazard yours what way you please.
Husband.
If so resolv'd, it ought to be my Care
To guard my Cash, and keep your Pockets bare,
That no dissembling Pick-Purse shall command
My Money, by my Wife's deceitful Hand:
I'll have no Presents bought, no Guineas sent
By Gossip Drill, to Rev'rend Master Cant:
Nor shall he dare to thrust his Holy Snout
Within my Doors, when told that I am out;
244
To give him entrance here, when I'm from Home,
As soon as I'm inform'd I'll turn them off,
And drive the Rebel hence with Kick and Cuff:
Nor shall your self from Punishment go free,
But, from that Hour, be under Lock and Key:
And if I chance to catch the Pick thank here,
Whisp'ring his Tales into your list'ning Ear,
After I've thus his Company forbidden,
I'll Geld him, as they do the Priests in Sweden.
Wife.
O! cruel Tyrant, would you seek his Blood,
And make an Eunuch of a Man of God;
I'll send him notice, that he ne'er may come
Within your wicked Doors when you're at Home.
Geld such a Holy Saint! O sinful Brute!
Here's Persecution with a witness to't!
The Lord protect him whereso'er he goes,
And guard him from the Malice of his Foes.
Bless me! that such a dreadful and profane
Design should start into the Heart of Man.
What has he done, good Soul, that he should lose
What, I dare swear, he ne'er knew how to use,
Not in a sinful manner I am sure,
His Soul's too Righteous, and his Thoughts too Pure.
By these your Threat'nings you too plainly show,
What Malice High-Church bears against the Low,
I'll swear I would not use a Jesuit so.
245
I shall not fear what Man can do unto me,
But will be steadfast in the Righteous way,
In spite of all that you can do or say.
Husband.
Since you're so much concern'd that I should steal
The Bandstrings of your Guides pretend Zeal,
Which by the Female Tribe have oft been ty'd,
And, for ought I know, by your self been try'd,
I'll make a Vow ne'er to embrace you more,
Till you your Saint and all his Tribe abjure,
Unbedded and neglected shall you lie,
Till with the true Church-Worship you comply,
No more shall you the Nuptial Joy possess,
But like a Widow spend your youthful Days;
For she can ne'er Love truly, or obey,
Whose wand'ring Soul seeks Heav'n a diff'rent way.
Wife.
O barb'rous Man to break his Marriage Troth,
But pray, my Love, don't make so rash an Oath;
Nay, prithee hush, for God's sake do not swear,
Don't Vow and I'll do any thing, my Dear.
Husband.
Be then obedient to my Will, and leave
Those Canting-Knaves, who labour to deceive,
Who fright you from the Truth with odious Lies,
And, thro' your Folly, make themselves seem wise;
246
Your own, to make their Families more great;
Wedlock our Souls as well as Bodies join,
You therefore ought to venture yours with mine;
If not, pray bid your Nuptial Sheets adieu,
I'll have no Flesh but with the Spirit too.
Wife.
L---d! you're the strangest Man I ever knew,
You are too rash, consider what you do:
Methinks, my Dear, I am unwilling now
We're marry'd, you should make so rash a Vow;
I cannot lose your Love, or frame a Heart
To dwell beneath one Roof, yet lie apart:
Therefore, my Dear, don't aggravate my Sorrow,
Bed me to Night, I'll go to Church to Morrow.
| Nuptial Dialogues and Debates | |