The Poetical Entertainer Or, Tales, Satyrs, Dialogues, And Intrigues, &c. Serious and Comical. All digested into such Verse as most agreeable to the several Subjects. To be publish'd as often as occasion shall offer [by Edward Ward] |
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A SATYR
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 | The Poetical Entertainer |  |
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A SATYR
By one Lady upon another.
This leisure Hour, Great Mother P****is thine,
That in my Verse thy wondrous Fame may shine;
Tho', shou'd each spiteful Muse attend my call,
Or had I Dorset's Wit, or Dryden's Gall,
Still shou'd I want what's needful, to pursue
The Vice you practice, and the Ills you do:
So hard it is to Paint a Monster true.
Thou worst of all thy Undeserving Kind,
By Nature's Malice, for our Curse design'd;
Shame of thy Race, and Torment of our Sex,
Whom thou delight'st to Wrong, and seek'st to Vex:
Vain as the Empty Sorceress, that dwells
In some dark Alley, where she Fortunes tells;
With the same Wiles that such Impostors use,
Thou dost the list'ning cred'lous Fop abuse;
Witness thy kind Predictions, which relate
To that fam'd Bard, by borrow'd Wit made Great;
Wherein, like Moorfields Wizard, you foresee,
By Pow'rs which reign'd at his Nativity,
That as he now appears a Blazing Star,
An Enemy to Peace, a Friend to War,
So e're old Time one Annual Course had run,
He surely shou'd become a Shining Sun;
When, spight of all thy Arts, the World must see,
He's grown, of late, as scandalous as thee;
And, being deaf to Reason's friendly Voice,
Is wretched by his own Ill-natur'd Choice.
Which shews thy Calculations of the Man,
Are full as false, as he himself is vain:
Therefore, wise Madam, pray no more pretend,
By Moorfields Banter, to deceive your Friend:
The thriving Trade of Secret Love pursue,
And quit not your old Calling for a new;
But make that Stair-case where you now remain,
As famous as your House in Chanc'ry-Lane;
Which useful, lustful, much frequented Box,
Stood Neighbour to the Whipping-Post and Stocks.
But as the Man, who Places his Abode
Most near the Church, is farthest still from God,
So you from Punishment liv'd most secure,
When Justice stood Erect before your Door;
Therefore return to th'Place from whence you came,
The Beaus will follow soon to cool their Flame;
What Lust or Int'rest carried you to them?
That in my Verse thy wondrous Fame may shine;
Tho', shou'd each spiteful Muse attend my call,
Or had I Dorset's Wit, or Dryden's Gall,
Still shou'd I want what's needful, to pursue
The Vice you practice, and the Ills you do:
So hard it is to Paint a Monster true.
Thou worst of all thy Undeserving Kind,
By Nature's Malice, for our Curse design'd;
Shame of thy Race, and Torment of our Sex,
Whom thou delight'st to Wrong, and seek'st to Vex:
Vain as the Empty Sorceress, that dwells
In some dark Alley, where she Fortunes tells;
With the same Wiles that such Impostors use,
Thou dost the list'ning cred'lous Fop abuse;
31
To that fam'd Bard, by borrow'd Wit made Great;
Wherein, like Moorfields Wizard, you foresee,
By Pow'rs which reign'd at his Nativity,
That as he now appears a Blazing Star,
An Enemy to Peace, a Friend to War,
So e're old Time one Annual Course had run,
He surely shou'd become a Shining Sun;
When, spight of all thy Arts, the World must see,
He's grown, of late, as scandalous as thee;
And, being deaf to Reason's friendly Voice,
Is wretched by his own Ill-natur'd Choice.
Which shews thy Calculations of the Man,
Are full as false, as he himself is vain:
Therefore, wise Madam, pray no more pretend,
By Moorfields Banter, to deceive your Friend:
The thriving Trade of Secret Love pursue,
And quit not your old Calling for a new;
But make that Stair-case where you now remain,
As famous as your House in Chanc'ry-Lane;
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Stood Neighbour to the Whipping-Post and Stocks.
But as the Man, who Places his Abode
Most near the Church, is farthest still from God,
So you from Punishment liv'd most secure,
When Justice stood Erect before your Door;
Therefore return to th'Place from whence you came,
The Beaus will follow soon to cool their Flame;
What Lust or Int'rest carried you to them?
But thou wert always Fickle, False, and Base,
Fond of new Lovers, fearless of Disgrace;
Unfix'd in Principles, oppress'd with Fears,
No Good enjoys, and all that's Evil bears.
'Tis Lust, no Soul that animates thy Clay,
Tho' soft without, within thou'rt all Decay;
Burnt up by unextinguishable Fires,
And Means employ'd to cool thy hot Desires;
Ill fares the Wretch, who by thy fading Charms,
Is tempted to thy loose insatiate Arms,
For as the Syren, thou hast learn'd to Wooe,
And fancy'st e'ery Object that is new,
Thus liv'st to Love, and Lov'st but to Undo.
Fond of new Lovers, fearless of Disgrace;
Unfix'd in Principles, oppress'd with Fears,
No Good enjoys, and all that's Evil bears.
'Tis Lust, no Soul that animates thy Clay,
Tho' soft without, within thou'rt all Decay;
Burnt up by unextinguishable Fires,
And Means employ'd to cool thy hot Desires;
Ill fares the Wretch, who by thy fading Charms,
Is tempted to thy loose insatiate Arms,
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And fancy'st e'ery Object that is new,
Thus liv'st to Love, and Lov'st but to Undo.
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