The Pleasures of Love and Marriage :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Pleasures of Love and Marriage

A Poem In Praise of the Fair Sex. In Requital for The Folly of Love, and some other late Satyrs on Women [by Richard Ames]

Ames, Richard

[section]

[Love is not Wounds, nor Darts, nor Fire]

THE PLEASURES OF LOVE, &c.

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[Love is not Wounds, nor Darts, nor Fire]

Love is not Wounds, nor Darts, nor Fire,
Nor an unbridled wild Desire:
That never holds which runs too fast;
What's Violent can never last.

Love's not a thing that's bought or Sold,
It thinks no Dross so base as Gold;
Intrest and Fear alike does hate,
Superior unto all but Fate.

It is not Lust, for Brutes would be,
If so, as much in Love as we,
Who neither Shape nor Beauty mind,
But dully must Preserve their Kind.

Where shall this Stranger then be found,
In what fantastic Fairy ground?
Is it a true or Fancy'd bliss?
Speak he that knows it what it is!

'Tis when two Kindred-Souls agree,
'Tis Vertues sweetest Harmony;
Vertue the Spring of true Content
The Basis, Wit the strong Cement.

'Tis made of tender moving Sighs,
Soft grasping Hands, kind melting Eys,
Magic which all our Cares beguiles,
Enchanting Glances charming Smiles.

Short Tremblings, which no fear discover,
The Guiltless Blush o'th' happy Lover,
These are th' Attendants which declare
The little Winged God is there.

If this Description won't suffice,
I'll read the rest in Stella's Eys.
That the exactest Map will prove,
And therefore Stella I must ever Love.

THE PLEASURES OF LOVE, &c.

Divinest Sex, compos'd of purer Mold!
(We only are the Ore, but you the Gold.)
How shall I justly Treat so vast a Theme,
Where meanly to Commend were to Blaspheme?
How shall I give your Virtues half their due,
In Living Verse, and Numbers worthy you?

Fair Stella, thy soft Sexes Pride and Joy,
The noblest Trophy of the winged Boy:
Bright Charmer of my Soul, whose very Name
Inspires Delight eternal as our Flame.

No longer I'll the noble Task refuse,
If with one gentle Smile you'll Tune my Muse.
The kindly Spring does Natures Face restore,
And dress a new, but Stella can do more;
Where nothing Gay e're flourisht, spite of Fate,
Her powerful Smile can what she please Create.
As, Thebes! thy wondrous Walls did once aspire
At the command of great Amphion's Lyre.

And now the Inspiration does begin,
I feel, I rising feel the God within,
A kindly Warmth, which does with that agree
When first my charming Conqu'ress wounded me,
(So near a kin are Love and Poetry)
Some Angel has with Nectar toucht my Tongue,
As Spencer's, when his Rosaline he sung.
Snarl on this Age! the next just praise will give,
And this, as long as the Fair Sex shall live.

When Man did first from Native Turf arise,
He all around him cast his wondring Eys.
Absolute Monarch then himself might call,
And under his great Maker, Lord of all:
The Royal Lyon willing Homage paid,
The mighty Elephant Obeysance made;

Ambition cou'd not find a thing to ask,
And Pleasure had as difficult a Task;
His most Luxurious wish cou'd seek no more,
When all Fair Eden was his own before.
Yet did he sad and Melancholy rove,
By each clear stream, thro' ev'ry lonely Grove,
And thought he wanted something still to Love.
When to the Christal Brooks he did repair,
To view in vain his watry Image there,
He saw the Amorous Palms outstretching wide
Their Leavy Hands to reach the distant side.
No Fruit they bore, unless their Like they found,
But dropt their Baren Blossoms on the Ground.
If to the Woods, if to the Plains he went,
What e're he meets augments his Discontent.
Here Faithful Turtles Court, and there he sees,
Thro' all the Grove, in all the Shrubs and Trees,
The Feather'd People lodg their Families.
The bolder Male abroad for Food does roam,
And leaves th' Industrious Female close at home:
But every ev'ning returns to wonted Rest,
And Perches near her in her Downy Nest;
Like seeks its Like, of every Kind's a Pair,
He saw no Single, fablous Phænix there.

Nor that for which much more he'd blest his Fate,
Which all besides enjoy'd, a gentle Mate.
Weary with seeking what cou'd not be found.
He throws himself upon the Verdant Ground;
There sadly lean'd on his kind Mothers Breast,
He with a Sigh compos'd his Eys to rest;
Where in a wondrous Vision's mystick Shade
He saw that glorious Creature Woman Made.
How fine a Turn appear'd in every part?
The Beauteous Master-piece of Heavenly Art:
All the exact Proportions sweeter seem'd,
And Man himself above himself esteem'd.
Far more of Angel in her Face and Eys,
The fittest Tenant she for Paradice:
He wak'd and claspt the Air; she from him flies,
Flies, yet looks back (so soon that Art she knew,)
And with a Smile invites him to pursue.
On rusht the Eager Youth to Bliss unknown,
And quickly thought the Beauteous Prey his own;
Till with a Frown his boldness she reproves,
At his Fair Captives Feet he kneels and Loves:
He Loves, she Grants, and Nature smiles to see,
In her best works so sweet a Harmony.

The Groves all Whisper, and the Birds all Sing,
Murmur each Chrystal Brook and Silver Spring;
No Wind but amorous Zephyrs Spicy Breez,
Which into gentle Motion Fans the Waves and Trees.
What if this Calm was, ah! too quickly past,
This more than Mortal Bliss too great to last,
If the false Serpent, Woman did deceive,
And slily ruin'd all the World in Eve?
'Twas her ungrateful Lover let her stray,
Through an unknown and a Forbidden way;
Careless what Company she chose or Place,
A true Forefather of his Perjur'd Race.
When Surfeited with too much happiness,
His Woman soon discover'd the Disease,
Would be a Goddess, not to know, but Please.
Thus when at last by Hellish Policy,
She Pluckt and Tasted that unlucky Tree;
Without her Adam she refus'd the Throne,
And scorn'd to be a Deity alone;
The choicest Fruit she in her Bosome stor'd,
And bore with greedy steps to her Lov'd Lord.
More Guilty far than his mistaken Bride,
He knew the fatal Price, yet Eat and Dy'd.

He Dy'd, tho' favour'd with a long Reprieve,
Her Love another Paradice cou'd give,
And made him, ev'n when Faln, content to Live.

Hence sprung a Race so very Fair and Good,
No wonder Heaven was left, and Angels Woe'd.
Those Sons of God in all their Pomp of Light,
Confess'd they found a Mortals Eys as bright.
What foolish Man despis'd, with Joy Embrac'd,
Mended his humble Stock and Heroes rais'd.

In Politics and Architecture Skill'd,
Men Boast they Empires raise and Cities Build:
Monsters and Thieves are to Destruction hurl'd
By them; 'tis they pretend to Rule the VVorld;
When VVomen kept it in its constant state,
While they their first fair Copy imitate,
Encourage Man in all his sweat and toils,
And richly pay his Pains with Love and Smiles.
'Tis VVoman makes the ravish'd Poet Write,
'Tis Lovely VVoman makes the Soldier Fight;
The Merchant Sails to China or Peru,
Farther than Janson or Mercator knew;
And Caravans through Sandy Desarts rome,
But to the same account their Labours coam,
To bring a Mistress Silks or Spices home.

If them with welcom Smiles she's pleas'd to meet,
Down go their Gold and Jewels at her Feet.

Should that soft Sex refuse the World to Bless,
Twou'd soon be Chaos all, or VVilderness;
A Herd, without Civility or Rules,
A Drove of Drinking, Cheating, Fighting Fools;
All Mad to kick each other off the Stage,
Their very Race destroy'd in one short Age.
'Twas Beauty first made Laws, did Monsters bind,
Reform'd the VVorld and civiliz'd Mankind;
Taught us at first to turn the Fruitful Soyl,
And with glad Harvest recompence the Toyl,
Fair Ceres gave us Corn, Minerva Oyl.
For Brutal Force which oft true worth supplies,
The other Sex may that Monopolize;
But which is the best Title, Bold or VVise?
Presence of Mind, Invention quick and free,
Unforc'd, and Natural Ingenuity;
Foresight and Caution, Ills unseen to ward,
Ready for th' worst, and still upon their Guard.
Here Man must own, tho scarce without a Blush,
They rather do excel than rival us.
As useful and more nimble all their Pow'rs,
Their Judgment sharp, and earlier Ripe than ours,

Of Fancy they've an unexhausted Mine,
A Quarry where the richest Jewels shine,
Their VVit is all their own, and all Divine.
Who has not heard of great Orinda's Fame,
Pride of her own, and our vain Sexes shame,
To every Sister Muse a darling Name?
Her self a Muse.—
Whom late Posterity just Praise shall give,
Scarce Cowleys Sacred VVorks will longer live.
Nor had soft Afra less Immortal prov'd,
Had that fond Sappho kept her Heart unmov'd,
And had she not too many Phaons Lov'd,
Whether with fair Oenonoe she deplor'd
The broken Faith of her ungrateful Lord;
Or in the Tragic Buskin swept the Stage,
Or in sharp Satyr lasht th' obnoxious Age,
Or aims at something more Sublime and High,
When Cæsars Conquer or when Cæsars Dye.
Till we her Match can find, her Fate we'll mourn,
Light fall the Dust on gentle Afra's Urn!

“What! Woman Wit? some VVitty Spark will say,
“Egad, not till sh' has Read my last New Play.
“The Dullest things on Earth, below a Pen,
“Heavy as Priests, or old fat Aldermen.

Yes Witty Sir! the Bays so much their due,
They'll wear in spite of Impudence and you.
If Wit be Nature's writing Copy fair,
Where shall we find it neater Drawn than there?
Shew me a Fop who seven long years in France,
Has learnt to play the Fool, and Cringe and Dance,
Can teach 'em the sweet Arts of Complaisance.
Their Sex the speediest best Instructions lends,
The best of Tutors and the best of Friends.
Man's like a Lute unstrung, until he be
By Conversation turn'd to Harmony;
And that's it self, if Woman from it stays,
As dull as when an ill Musician Plays.
Woman's the Salt of Life, without a Grain
Of which, attempts for Mirth were all in vain;
Where e're she treads like Sunshine guilds the ground
And throws an air of Life and Pleasure round.
A Sympathetic Fire, whose very sight
Clears all the Rust of Man, and makes him Bright.

“But they a hundred thousand knicknacks wear,
“Exalted Top-knot Christians now they are,
“And grow almost as Proud as Lucifer.

We none wou'd wrong, but give the Devil his due,
Suppose for once your Accusation true;
Where did they learn their Pride, unless from you?

If they're infected, 'tis with your Disease;
Unless fantastick, they can never please.
Is Pride then seated in the Mind or Dress;
Have you not often seen, if you'd confess,
A humble Pomp, and a proud Nastiness?
With what shou'd they adorn themselves, and how?
Must Mother Eves thin Fig-leaves only do,
Or may they wear a Leathern-Apron too?
Or dress'd in honest Home-spun Country Gray?
If you your selves know what will please you, say,
That all the Sex may instantly obey.
Nothing, alas, which feeble Art can lend,
Can unsophisticated Beauty mend.
Is Phœbus by the Clouds he wears more bright?
Unarm'd that Sex most dangerously fight.
How well becomes a Horse his noble Pride,
Since every Beggar else would up and ride?
That sometimes will instead of Virtue serve,
'Tis a just Sense of what their Sex deserve;
But yours more unexcusable will prove,
They only love themselves, you think that you they love.

Nor are you more uncivil or unjust,
In fixing here the ugly Brand of Lust.

Those whom deserved slights and losses vex,
Invent new Sins and throw 'em on the Sex;
More monstrous Crimes than e're Hot Asia knew,
Tho if 'twere possible they shou'd be true,
Italy equals, and exceeds 'em too.
Whose thrifty Wickedness the Sex forsakes,
And of those Beauteous Fields a Sodom makes.
When, tame Vesuvius! shall thy Thunder rise,
And purge those foul infected Earth and Skies,
Thy Streams beyond th' affrighted Tiber shine,
And justly punish hotter Flames than thine?
If any left, reserve 'em still for those
Who are the Lovely Sexes causeless Foes.

How many a faithful Wife and gen'rous Maid
VVhen to a Ravishers hot Lust betray'd,
Have gladly fled to Deaths cold Arms for aid?
How bravely cou'd the Fair Lucretia Dye,
Rather than she'd survive her Chastity?
But ah! she did the fatal Stab misplace,
Her part sh' had acted with a better Grace,
To've Kill'd the Tyrant in his loath'd Embrace;
There left him in his own Hot Gore to role,
And at the wound let out his Lustful Soul.

In vain the Spark may-grin, in vain he'll Swear,
“Such Miracles are Ceas'd, or never were.
“And that no Woman he cou'd ever find,
“But if the opportunity were kind,
“Wou'd be so too.—Perhaps he once is right;
He ne're Assaults but where the Walls are slight;
True Bullies will with none but Cowards Fight.
A Virtuous Woman values Fame too high,
To let the bold Assailant come so nigh,
The Fort's half gone that Treats with th' Enemy.
That Town is won which e're th' Attack is made,
Has lost its Counterscarp and Palizade.
When the White-Flag you see at first hung out,
You're wondrous Daring then, and wondrous Stout;
When once you but discover those within,
By their faint Fire have a low Magazine,
A slender stock of Chastity in store,
Your Oaths and Curses then like Canon roar,
You storm like Devils, and cry a Whore a Whore.
If you a Virtuous VVoman tempt in vain,
Who still repells you with deserv'd disdain,
Who all your weak designs secure can mock,
Firm seated on an Alablaster Rock.

Her Snowy Bosom not more pure and fair,
Than the white Guest that still inhabits there,
Repulst at last with just Despair and Shame,
Your Poisnous Tongues at least will blast her Fame;
If her you can't, you'll ruin her Good Name.
And to th' ill-natur'd World with Oaths protest,
All her Resistance was design or Jest,
You found her VVoman, just like all the rest.

But say what VVoman, search all ages o're
Debaucht a Man, search Hell's unnumber'd store,
Who learnt it not from that false Sex before.
Who, can they any easy Fool Debauch,
Most generously undo, and then reproach,
And like th' Inhabitants of endless Flame,
Over the wretch insult they helpt to Damn.
To whom the Perjur'd Villains Kneel'd and Swore,
But a few days perhaps or hours before,
Like a true Spaniel; lickt her Hand or Glove,
And Vow'd eternal Constancy and Love.
Marriage is a dull Ceremony, made
By hungry Priests of old, to mend their Trade.
'Tis Love's the thing, what matter for the Name?
Cou'd they suspect their Faith as not the same,
Or when they'd all the Stakes they'd not play out the Game.

Can you be so ungenerous and unkind?
Then with ten thousand Oaths his Faith he'll bind;
Perjur'd and Damn'd so often and so deep,
The Devil himself th' Accounts can hardly keep.
Thus silly Flies by Cobweb-vows betray'd,
Their Virtue lose, and lose the name of Maid.
But then how soon another Face is shown?
E're the third night she's stale and nauseous grown,
The Cur has now some other Games to play;
No more her Whistle or her Call t' obey,
H' intends, but shakes his Tayl and runs away.
To Brother Brutes will of her Favours boast,
And Write her Name on every Pissing-Post.

Who wonders if a Shop-Lift hates the Jayl,
Or strolling Gipsies at the Justice Rail?
If an old Usurer 'twou'd not well content
To hear a Bill was past for Four per Cent,
And if he all berogu'd the Parliament.
And who, that knows the World, will wonder more
That those at Matrimony rail, who Whore?
Call the poor Husband Munkey, Ass, or Dog,
And jear his Neck worn with the Wedlock-Clog,
While freely they o're tops of Houses strolling,
Venture their Bones each Night a Caterwouling.

Besides a Ridg, or into Chimnies peep,
Through Cellar, or through Garret-Windows creep;
Expose themselves to Falls, or Guns, or Traps,
And twenty other unforeseen Mishaps,
All in the hot pursuit of VVhores and Claps.
Ruin their Health, their Honour and Estate,
To Buy Repentance at so dear a rate;
For when Old Age with Palsy'd steps draws on,
Some ten perhaps, or twenty Years too soon,
And long e're this the last dear Acre gon.
Shew me a Thing whom more the World despise,
Or more a VVretch than the old Lecher is!
'Twou'd even a common Womans passion move,
To see th' Old Doating Epicure make Love.
Restrain her strugling Laughter she that can,
A Lousy, Gowty, spawling, poor Old-Man;
All over Lame, his Hips, his Hands, his Feet,
Fit for no other but a Winding-Sheet.

“True cries the Spark, but I have time to spare,
“Am Young and Free, and unconfin'd as Air;
“I'll Drink full Bowls of Pleasure while I may,
“And treat Life kindly, since so short its stay,
“And sip the sweets, and bask in the warm Beams of day,

“Whilst i'm awake i'll to my self be kind,
“And Reason too for all that I can find,
“Since all's a long, a dark, eternal sleep behind.

Sir, are you sure of that? Nay, never Swear,
You think none e're come thence that once were there;
How should you know it then? Deny it not,
By night and sleep you mean you know not what.

“Well, if their shou'd, as the dull Clergy prate,
“Be any Future World or After State,
“Sure that good Being who did all Create,
“Rewards and Pains distributes justly there,
“And Man for necessary Ills will spare,
“Nor will his Punishment be too Severe.
“For what's more hard to vanquish than reprove,
“The natural Fault, if such it be, of Love?
“Are we into our Ruin thus decoy'd?
“VVas Nature made only to be destroy'd?
“For what is Good, if not to be Enjoy'd?
“And what is Good, or where, unless 'tis Common?
“And shew me any Good on Earth like VVoman!

So now the Quarrel's plainer than before,
'Tis with the Virtuous VVoman, not the VVhore.
Well Argu'd for a Beast, we needs must own,
To whom no Principle but Sense is known;

They neither Number nor Distinguish can,
(Those are the Sole Prerogatives of Man)
But rush with undiscerning Rage, like you,
On the first Object that presents to view.
Themselves with Shape or Beauty ne're perplex,
But just like you,'r in Love with all the Sex.
Thus they, but those with reasoning minds endu'd,
Suspend a while when a Good Object's view'd,
And ask, if a Proportionable Good?
Sense is enough where Senses only Woe,
But Reasoning Lovers must have Reason too.
No wonder if the Body quickly cloy,
But Minds are infinite, and like themselves Enjoy.
There you may Travel still from Pole to Pole,
Where Winds can carry, or where Waves can roll,
For all the World is Pictur'd in a Soul;
An unexhausted sweet Variety,
That ne're degenerates to Satiety,
But out-lasts Time, and measures with Eternity.
Can any thing in this dull World pretend,
Than Wit and Reason greater Bliss to lend?
And VVit and Reasons pleasures never end.
If there's a farther Pleasure, 'tis a Friend.

Whom mutual Griefs and mutual Joys may move,
With whom we all the Sweets of Life may prove,
Society and, Sympathy and Love.
If each of these so Charming is alone,
Who wou'd not gladly listen to be shown,
Where, without fail, to find 'em all in one.
At once the vast united Joys to prove,
Of Sense and Reason, Nature, Friendship, Love?
For such a Bliss, who'd not the World despise,
If such a Bliss he might Monopolize?
Yet need not his poor Neighbour at him Grutch,
Tho he has all, t'other may have as much:
Fire, Air, Earth, VVater, thus we common call,
Yet 'tis not all to some, but some to all.

“VVou'd not this Phænix set the World at strife
“To enjoy't? No, there's no danger, 'tis a VVife.
“A VVife, the Spark replies, the Name's as dull
“As Country Squire, or sage Right Worshipful.
“Rather than that, e'en let the World stand still,
“Or Porters drudg to keep it on the wheel.
“Give me your French Ragoo! your racy Miss,
“I hate a VVife, that English fulsom Dish,
“Nor know nor care whether 'tis Flesh or Fish.

“On such Gross Food our Grandsires us'd to Dine,
“The Coxcombs knew not what 'twas to Eat Fine:
“The World Sir now is mightily improv'd,
“'Tis not the age in which their Wives they Lov'd.
Degenerate Race! Your own and Natures Foe:
Ah! that your Fathers never had done so!
And yet in truth 'twou'd bear a long debate,
If this whole Age be'nt illegitimate?
By their loose Sires with Rage and Brandy hot,
In Leagures on the Sutlers Wives begot.
Since nothing they but Drabs and Drinking mind,
So true the Proverb, Cat will after kind.
Tho some there are, so very good and few,
That if enough might Plant the VVorld anew.
Not made like those Sown on Earths fertile Face,
Old Pyrrhu's and Deucalion's Stony Race,
But warm'd with gentle Fire and gentle Love,
As Pure and Constant as the Lamps above.
By Law and Inclination doubly joyn'd,
Both acted by one Sympathetick Mind.
VVhom Wedlock's Silken Chains as softly tye,
As that which when asunder snapt, we dye,
Which makes the Soul and Body's wondrous harmony.

Thrice Happy they in those soft Fetters ty'd,
The Fatal Sisters only can divide;
Who for no other Mastry ever strove,
But whether of the two should better Love,
As kind as when the Youth did first pretend,
(Passions on Virtue founded never end)
For tho in Age their Tops less verdant show,
Their flour'shing twisted Roots still stronger grow.
No churlish Feuds disturb their blest Abodes,
All calm, as are the Dwellings of the Gods.
No little peevish Quarrels enter there,
No noise but Sighs which Fan the Amorous Air,
And all like Tempe still, and all like Tempe Fair.
Jealousy's Banish'd thence, and Rage and Pride,
And all the Torments of the World beside,
Sweet Peace their close Attendant, Love their Guide.
All the white Passions that delight to rest,
With Innocence in every constant Breast;
Pleasures which Guilt, nor Time, nor Age destroy,
Grateful Vicissitudes of Hope and Joy.
Glad Lambent Flames, but no wild wandring Fire,
A still Possess'd, and still renew'd Desire;
The Parent that, Delight the Child of Love,
Complacency, the Heaven of those above.

Wisely has Fate to to half the World deny'd,
(Almost perhaps to t'other half beside)
That more than mortal Bliss, a Virtuous, Lovely Bride
Since knew they once the Joys of Loving well,
And were they all but blest like Astrophel;
Ev'n for Elystum sure they'd hardly care,
But spite of Lethe live unhappy there.
Whoever of the two first seiz'd shou'd be,
Whether 'twere Orpheus or Euridice;
T'other wou'd follow, either to retrieve
Far more than half their Soul, or with 'em live.
One then cou'd never Dye without a Pair,
The Indian Wives Examples, now so rare
Wou'd then be own'd, and practis'd every where.
Let others Rally, Envy, Smile or Chide,
Me from my Stella may no day divide.
Not ev'n the last, 'twould be Impiety,
To think I'd wish to out-live her, or she
To live one single moment more than me.
Wou'd some of you, ye gentle Powers above,
Who favour Innocence and Virtuous Love;
Wou'd you blest Astrophel's Petition grant,
For which thus low he kneels your Supplicant.

His Modest wishes shou'd not aim too high,
Thus only he'd ask to Live, and thus to Dye.

After a Life in Virtuous Acts employ'd,
And Bliss, that leaves no Sting or Shame, enjoy'd,
(Double your Gifts, ye Gods! If ought you'd give)
To cheerful Age may He and Stella live,
Till of their Lives no Friend is weary grown,
Nor they, or of each others, or their own.
May they (but sure that wish scarce needs) Love on
With mutual Flames till their last Sand is gon;
Then gently leaning on each others Breast,
Slumber away in Smiles to softer Rest.
Mistaken World to envy Kings, when we
May at far less expence far happier be.
All those gay trifles which so weigh 'em down,
Their Robes and heavy, wondrous heavy Crown;
Their Globe, their Scepter and their Diadem,
With ease a happy Lover can contemn,
Poor cumber'd things, by Heaven I pity them.
So great their Toyl, their thankless Task so hard,
Ungrateful Towns to Save, and Kingdoms Guard,
So great their Task, so rare their just Reward.
What can a worthy Reparation prove?
What but a Beauty worth a Princes Love?

If in ten Ages one by Fate is blest,
One Favorite Prince, who all his Life redrest,
The worlds wide wrongs, and succour'd the distrest
“True Successor o'th' great Herculean race,
“Form'd by the Gods, fell Monsters to debase;
If one with such an Empress favour'd be,
As suits his Inclination and Degree,
Worthy to fill a share of Majesty.
Who with him joyntly feels each Joy and Smart,
True partner of his Empire, Cares and Heart;
If Business he of one short Hour beguile,
And lets th' expecting World stand still the while;
If Great Augustus from the Field retires,
And Gracious Gloriana's Eys admires;
The Fates of Empires will not let him stay,
He in a few short moments must away;
Some other Kingdoms his Defence do crave,
Imploring that he'd them vouchsafe to Save;
Their Patron and their Guardian Friend esteem,
And lift their Dying Eys to Heaven and Him;
Or sighing Europe of her wrongs complains,
Shows her Imprison'd Hands, and begs he'd break her Chains,
Deliver all her Injur'd Sons and Her,
And take just Vengeance on the Ravisher.

Whilst now he plunges through the frighted Boyn,
Now the Mosell, and Meause, and headlong Rhine;
A thousand Fates around him does despise,
And sends far more among his Enemies;
He keeps far off our Danger at a Bay,
While we securely here sit still and Pray.
Tast the sweet Spring, and new recov'ring Groves,
And thro' our Peaceful Plains Record our happy Loves.
VVhile Gloriana fills so well his Trone,
As either were design'd to Reign alone;
Dazles Spite's Eys, stops Envy's stinking Breath,
A second Lov'd, Ador'd Elizabeth;
Had She been Born where Rome's Religion sways,
And all the World their Mitred Prince obeys;
They one St. more wou'd from their Mass-book tear,
New Ave-Mary's they'd repeat to Her,
And place Her second in the Calendar;
No other Saints auspicious aid they'd crave,
Her single Worth and Merits they'd believe
Sufficient all Her Rank and Sex to Save.
While She the Kingdom's Intrest still Improves,
While She Her Royal Lord so dearly Loves,
While She'll so Fair, so Just a Pattern give,
Her Subjects must be blest, if they'd but like Her Live.

'Tis flat Disloyalty that Sex to blame,
Who now can so Divine a Princess Claim:
None sure will do't, but those who burst for Spite,
None but despairing Teague or Jacobite.
For those who in their rage persist and will
The vengeance of a Loyal Lover feel;
Who still at the Fair Sex will rail and curse,
Be this their Doom, till we can find a worse:
Be this their Doom, to Love and to Despair,
The Ridicule of some Fantastic Fair;
With Folly, Jealousy, and Pride possest,
And all the Faults are Charg'd on all the rest;
So fondly fickle that she does not know
What she has promis'd half an Hour ago.
(I need not wish a Mortal more perplex'd)
Nor better what she means to do the next;
Still discontented, sower, morose, and vain,
Triumphing in her tame Adorers pain;
Jilting him to his Face, but not too long deceive,
Lest he too happy shou'd himself believe.
May all the Infamy they ever cast
Upon the Charming Sex rebound at last
On their own cursed Heads; their Folly, Pride,
Rage, Lust, and every poysonous Ill beside:

May Envy gnaw their Intrails, never free
From Eating Spite, and Canker'd Jealousie;
Through ev'ry Vein may the sharp Venom roul,
Diseases rack their Body, Rage their Soul,
Till with their Sins and Sores alike opprest,
They Rotting to the Dung-hill crawl for rest;
Drop in the Streets, like Poyson'd Rats from Shelves,
Or in some Whores old Garters Hang themselves.

FINIS.