University of Virginia Library

A very Heroicall Epistle in Answer to Ephelia.

Madam.

If you're deceiv'd, it is not by my Cheate,
For all Disguises, are below the greate;
What Man, or Woman, upon Earth can say,
I ever us'd 'em well above a Day?
How is it then, that I inconstant am?
He changes not, who allways, is the same.
In my deare self, I center ev'ry thing,
My Servants, Friends, my Mistresse and my King,
Nay Heav'n, and Earth, to that one poynt I bring:
Well-Manner'd, Honest, Generous and stout,
(Names by dull Fooles, to plague Mankind found out)
Shou'd I reguard, I must my self constraine,
And 'tis my Maxim, to avoyd all paine;
You fondly looke for what none e're cou'd find,
Deceive your self, and then call me unkind;
And by false Reasons, wou'd my falshood prove;
For 'tis as Naturall, to change, as love:
You may as justly at the Sun repine
Because alike it does not allways shine;
Noe glorious thing, was ever made to stay,
My Blazeing Starr, but visits, and away:
As fatall too, it shines, as those i'th' Skyes,
Tis never seene, but some great Lady dyes.
The boasted favour you soe precious hold,
To me's noe more, than changeing of my Gold;
What e're you gave, I paid you back in Blisse!
Then where's the Obligation pray of this?
If heretofore you found grace in my Eyes,
Be thankfull for it, and let that suffice.
But Women, Beggar-like, still haunt the Doore,
Where they've receiv'd a Charity before.
Oh happy Sultan! whom wee Barb'rous call!
How much refin'd art thou above us all?
Who Envys not the joys of thy Seraill?
Thee, like some God, the trembling Crowd adore,
Each Man's thy Slave, and Woman-kind, thy Whore.
Methinkes I see thee underneath the shade,
Of Golden Cannopies, supinely laid:
Thy crowching Slaves, all silent as the Night,
But at the Nod, all Active as the Light!
Secure in Solid Sloth, thou there dost Reigne,
And feel'st the joys of Love, without the paine:
Each Female Courts thee with a wishing Eye,
Whilst thou with Awfull Pride, walkst carelesse by,
Till thy kind Pledge at last markes out the Dame,
Thou fancy'st most to quench thy present flame:
Then from thy Bed, submissive she retires,
And thankfull for the Grace, noe more requires.
Noe lowd reproach, nor fond unwelcome sound
Of Womens Tongues, thy sacred Eare dares wound;
If any doe, a nimble Mute strait tyes,
The True-Love-Knot, and stops her foolish cryes.
Thou fearst noe injur'd Kinsmans threatning Blade,
Nor Midnight Ambushes, by Rivalls laid;
While here with Akeing Heart, our joys wee taste,
Disturb'd by Swords, like Democles his Feast.