The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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THE POETESS,
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
15
THE POETESS,
A SATYR, Being a REPLY to SILVIA's Revenge.
------ Revenge at first, tho' sweet,
Bitter, e'er long, back on it Self recoils:
Bitter, e'er long, back on it Self recoils:
Mil. Par. Lost.
Why, foolish Woman, are You so Enrag'd
To see my Satyr and your Sex engag'd?
Can one poor Muse sustain so vast a Shock
As they can Frown, and Laugh, and Lye, and Look?
Ten Thousand Aids they to their Side can bring;
The Satyr only but employs Her Sting.
Nor did she Vertue ever yet molest,
But Praise it, Thriving; and Defend, Opprest.
Vice is her Sole Aversion, and 'tis there
Sh' has sworn, tho' ne'er so Mighty, not to Spare;
But Lash, without Distinction, Sex and Age,
While there's an Object left to whet her Rage:
And that, no doubt, there will forever be;—
At least, as long as We are plagu'd with Thee:
Thou ill Defender of a Cause as ill;
Revenge your Motive; and, the Guide, your Will.
Thy Fulsom Pen prepost'rous 'twas to foul,
Since it but shews the Blackness of your Soul;
Which now y'ave prov'd, by this Audacious Task,
Of the same Fiend-Complexion with your Mask:
Mark't for the Stygian Colony below,
It Here does Practice what 'tis There to Do:
All You have Writ does shew Y'are thence Inspir'd,
And only there can hope to be admir'd;
For Men detest Thee; nay, so far y'ave gone,
Y'ave pull'd the Womens Indignation on,
As in the Sequel shall at large be shown.
To see my Satyr and your Sex engag'd?
Can one poor Muse sustain so vast a Shock
As they can Frown, and Laugh, and Lye, and Look?
Ten Thousand Aids they to their Side can bring;
The Satyr only but employs Her Sting.
Nor did she Vertue ever yet molest,
But Praise it, Thriving; and Defend, Opprest.
16
Sh' has sworn, tho' ne'er so Mighty, not to Spare;
But Lash, without Distinction, Sex and Age,
While there's an Object left to whet her Rage:
And that, no doubt, there will forever be;—
At least, as long as We are plagu'd with Thee:
Thou ill Defender of a Cause as ill;
Revenge your Motive; and, the Guide, your Will.
Thy Fulsom Pen prepost'rous 'twas to foul,
Since it but shews the Blackness of your Soul;
Which now y'ave prov'd, by this Audacious Task,
Of the same Fiend-Complexion with your Mask:
Mark't for the Stygian Colony below,
It Here does Practice what 'tis There to Do:
All You have Writ does shew Y'are thence Inspir'd,
And only there can hope to be admir'd;
For Men detest Thee; nay, so far y'ave gone,
Y'ave pull'd the Womens Indignation on,
As in the Sequel shall at large be shown.
Of all your Sex, You are the most unfit
To vindicate their Chastity, or Wit:
Among the Rest some Sparks of Worth may shine,
And from their Bosoms dart a Gleam Divine;
But they for ever are Extinct in Thine:
In Thee the Sun of Vertue's Set, and lies
Eclips'd in loose Desires, no more to rise,
And with its Maiden Glories gild the Blushing Skies.
Ephelia! poor Ephelia! ragged Jilt,
And Sappho, famous for Her Gout and Guilt;
Either of those, tho' both debauch'd and vile,
Had answer'd me in a more Decent Stile:
Yet Hackney Writers, when their Verse did fail
To get'em Brandy, Bread and Cheese, and Ale,
Their Wants by Prostitution were supply'd;
Shew but a Tester, you might up and ride:
For Punk and Poetess agree so Pat,
You cannot well be This, and not be That.
Than thou, ev'n these had better Conduct shown,
Preserv'd their Sexes Fame, and half retriev'd their own.
To vindicate their Chastity, or Wit:
Among the Rest some Sparks of Worth may shine,
And from their Bosoms dart a Gleam Divine;
But they for ever are Extinct in Thine:
In Thee the Sun of Vertue's Set, and lies
Eclips'd in loose Desires, no more to rise,
And with its Maiden Glories gild the Blushing Skies.
Ephelia! poor Ephelia! ragged Jilt,
And Sappho, famous for Her Gout and Guilt;
Either of those, tho' both debauch'd and vile,
Had answer'd me in a more Decent Stile:
Yet Hackney Writers, when their Verse did fail
To get'em Brandy, Bread and Cheese, and Ale,
Their Wants by Prostitution were supply'd;
Shew but a Tester, you might up and ride:
17
You cannot well be This, and not be That.
Than thou, ev'n these had better Conduct shown,
Preserv'd their Sexes Fame, and half retriev'd their own.
Shew me one Page, of all the Angry Store,
Exempt from Terms like These;—Jilt, Strumpet, Whore,
Hag, Hot-House, Fluxing, Leach'ry, Emp'ricks Bills,
Claps, Cully, Keeper, Pox, and Pocky Pills;
Words that wou'd shock the Modest Matron's Ear,
And make her Blush to think a Female fixt 'em there.—
But what are those You Hag and Harlot Name?
Women! what the Destructive Bawd? The Same:
What Drabs and Maud'ling Gossips? Women still!
Yet Woman You'd defend from being ill.
Methinks I hear the Hebrew Nymphs again—
Thy Thousand Thou, and Thou hast Thousands Slain:
Tho' many Crimes I nam'd, I more conceal'd;
But, there's no counting those by Thee reveal'd!
Which tho' 'its Certain there's not One but True,
Were yet not Things to be disclos'd by You:
You on their Failings shou'd have drawn their Veils,
And not obscenely shewn their Cloven Feet and Tails:
Since complicated Vice in Man appears,
Enough to Exercise thy Rage for Years,
What need so lavishly Exposing Theirs?
Exempt from Terms like These;—Jilt, Strumpet, Whore,
Hag, Hot-House, Fluxing, Leach'ry, Emp'ricks Bills,
Claps, Cully, Keeper, Pox, and Pocky Pills;
Words that wou'd shock the Modest Matron's Ear,
And make her Blush to think a Female fixt 'em there.—
But what are those You Hag and Harlot Name?
Women! what the Destructive Bawd? The Same:
What Drabs and Maud'ling Gossips? Women still!
Yet Woman You'd defend from being ill.
Methinks I hear the Hebrew Nymphs again—
Thy Thousand Thou, and Thou hast Thousands Slain:
Tho' many Crimes I nam'd, I more conceal'd;
But, there's no counting those by Thee reveal'd!
Which tho' 'its Certain there's not One but True,
Were yet not Things to be disclos'd by You:
You on their Failings shou'd have drawn their Veils,
And not obscenely shewn their Cloven Feet and Tails:
Since complicated Vice in Man appears,
Enough to Exercise thy Rage for Years,
What need so lavishly Exposing Theirs?
Compar'd with Thee, I'm careful of their Fame;—
But sure, You only Scribble for a Name:
And since Y'are fond of it, Your Name shall live;
What You can't give your Self, perhaps, my Lines may give.
Above all former Shame You shall be sham'd,
Till Y'are at last so Infamously fam'd,
That Bawds, thro' all their Brass, shall blush to hear You Nam'd.
But sure, You only Scribble for a Name:
And since Y'are fond of it, Your Name shall live;
What You can't give your Self, perhaps, my Lines may give.
Above all former Shame You shall be sham'd,
Till Y'are at last so Infamously fam'd,
That Bawds, thro' all their Brass, shall blush to hear You Nam'd.
18
Wretched is She that dares to be thy Friend,
But far more Wretched whom You once Commend:
For tho' She might for Modest pass before,
Thy Praise wou'd Transubstantiate her to Whore.
Not One e'er pass'd thy Panegyrick Quill,
Describ'd as Good, but was extremely Ill.
For Proof; what is that Silvia you defend?
What but a Train of Guile without an End?
In Circulating Crimes she round does move,
Thinks Falshood, Prudence; and Her Lewdness, Love.
Expensive, Idle, Arrogant and Vain;
And ne'er had such a Bulk so little Brain:
Not She who in your Commendation writ,
(Whose Worth and Verse with Thine exactly fit,)
Has more of Garbage, or has less of Wit.
But far more Wretched whom You once Commend:
For tho' She might for Modest pass before,
Thy Praise wou'd Transubstantiate her to Whore.
Not One e'er pass'd thy Panegyrick Quill,
Describ'd as Good, but was extremely Ill.
For Proof; what is that Silvia you defend?
What but a Train of Guile without an End?
In Circulating Crimes she round does move,
Thinks Falshood, Prudence; and Her Lewdness, Love.
Expensive, Idle, Arrogant and Vain;
And ne'er had such a Bulk so little Brain:
Not She who in your Commendation writ,
(Whose Worth and Verse with Thine exactly fit,)
Has more of Garbage, or has less of Wit.
But here you'll ask me, by mistaken Rules—
What are the Men that fall in Love with Fools?
But pray Reflect,—When w'are of Cupid's Train
The Motion's just Eccentrick to the Brain:
Nature must Reason from her Seat remove:
If she'd Preside, and give the Reins to Love;
Who, while the Blood her Craving Itch supplies,
Deceives the Crafty, and Confounds the Wise.
Thus, made, by an Insulting Passion blind,
In Silvia's Form I cou'd all Sweetness find,
And all Perfection extant in her Mind.
But now the Am'rous Films are dropt away,
And I can Objects, as they are Survey,
A Thousand Ills I've in that Nymph descry'd,
Which Nothing but a Love like Mine cou'd hide.
Restless her Will, Licentious her Desire,
Now Chilling Ice, and now all flaming Fire.
Her Love so little to her Promise fixt,
That if this Hour is Heav'n, 'tis Hell the next.
Perjur'd from Head to Foot; so strangely foul,
She's blackn'd thoro' to the very Soul!—
Not but that Love, plac'd in a Gen'rous Mind,
With Truth adorn'd, and Chastity refin'd,
Is an Affection of Cœlestial kind;
For then no Guilt it does in Thought contract,
And but Regards the Issue not the Act.
Unlike is Silvia's;—to such Grossness giv'n,
No Thought affects her like a Turkish Heav'n;
Where Sixty Years, She says, must duly run.
Before one Act of dear Coition's done.
Such odious Crimes I Justly Reprehend;
So known a Jilt unjustly You defend:
It speaks Thee plainly to her Guilt a Twin,
In Sense as Shallow, and as deep in Sin,
And perhaps Deeper;—as the World may find
In that Part of Iambic yet behind.
What are the Men that fall in Love with Fools?
But pray Reflect,—When w'are of Cupid's Train
The Motion's just Eccentrick to the Brain:
Nature must Reason from her Seat remove:
If she'd Preside, and give the Reins to Love;
Who, while the Blood her Craving Itch supplies,
Deceives the Crafty, and Confounds the Wise.
Thus, made, by an Insulting Passion blind,
In Silvia's Form I cou'd all Sweetness find,
And all Perfection extant in her Mind.
But now the Am'rous Films are dropt away,
And I can Objects, as they are Survey,
A Thousand Ills I've in that Nymph descry'd,
Which Nothing but a Love like Mine cou'd hide.
Restless her Will, Licentious her Desire,
Now Chilling Ice, and now all flaming Fire.
Her Love so little to her Promise fixt,
That if this Hour is Heav'n, 'tis Hell the next.
19
She's blackn'd thoro' to the very Soul!—
Not but that Love, plac'd in a Gen'rous Mind,
With Truth adorn'd, and Chastity refin'd,
Is an Affection of Cœlestial kind;
For then no Guilt it does in Thought contract,
And but Regards the Issue not the Act.
Unlike is Silvia's;—to such Grossness giv'n,
No Thought affects her like a Turkish Heav'n;
Where Sixty Years, She says, must duly run.
Before one Act of dear Coition's done.
Such odious Crimes I Justly Reprehend;
So known a Jilt unjustly You defend:
It speaks Thee plainly to her Guilt a Twin,
In Sense as Shallow, and as deep in Sin,
And perhaps Deeper;—as the World may find
In that Part of Iambic yet behind.
In my most sullen and Invet'rate fit,
(As most of Anger still has least of wit,)
I ne'er said Maiden-Heads were Nothing yet:
Without a Blush thus far with Thee we'll Joyn,
They are meer Nothings all, if all like Thine:
How can you ward the Beaut'ous Sex's Blame
That thro' their Purity wou'd wound their Fame?
Virginity, that Angel State, wherein
Cou'd they but live, (almost) they wou'd live free from Sin
That Charm remov'd, what thoughtless Youth wou'd care,
(Meer Lust excepted) to approach the Fair?
Why are we fond? why Languish and adore
But to have something never had before?
To be the first that Crops the Virgin Flower,
Just in the Critical, and Blissful Hour
When the strong Watchful Guard resign their Pow'r;
No longer by her Ignorance kept in awe,
But side with Hymen's more Seraphic Law;
When in the Blushing Virgin's Kindling Eyes
We see a sort of Yielding Sweetness rise,
When pregnant with a Thousand Nameless Charms,
She dies away, and Sinks into your Arms;
Then Grasps, breaths short, her Glowing Eye-Balls rowl,
And a Convulsive Rapture seizes on Her Soul!
The Certainty they've been of that Possest,
Does make a Calm in ev'ry Husband's Breast;
It gives ev'n Marriage a delicious taste,
And is the Oyl that makes those Colours last.
Who ever tyes that Miserable Knot,
And thinking sure to find it, finds it not,
Words are too Poor to paint his more than Cursed Lot!
For she that let her Tail to hire before,
Has now a Specious Mask to gild the Whore:
But She that brings it to the Nuptial Bow'r,
She that preserves it Sacred to that Hour,
Has in her future Conduct double Pow'r;
For what in Maids Virginity we Name,
In Chast and Faithful Wives does ripen into Fame.
(As most of Anger still has least of wit,)
I ne'er said Maiden-Heads were Nothing yet:
Without a Blush thus far with Thee we'll Joyn,
They are meer Nothings all, if all like Thine:
How can you ward the Beaut'ous Sex's Blame
That thro' their Purity wou'd wound their Fame?
Virginity, that Angel State, wherein
Cou'd they but live, (almost) they wou'd live free from Sin
That Charm remov'd, what thoughtless Youth wou'd care,
(Meer Lust excepted) to approach the Fair?
Why are we fond? why Languish and adore
But to have something never had before?
To be the first that Crops the Virgin Flower,
Just in the Critical, and Blissful Hour
When the strong Watchful Guard resign their Pow'r;
20
But side with Hymen's more Seraphic Law;
When in the Blushing Virgin's Kindling Eyes
We see a sort of Yielding Sweetness rise,
When pregnant with a Thousand Nameless Charms,
She dies away, and Sinks into your Arms;
Then Grasps, breaths short, her Glowing Eye-Balls rowl,
And a Convulsive Rapture seizes on Her Soul!
The Certainty they've been of that Possest,
Does make a Calm in ev'ry Husband's Breast;
It gives ev'n Marriage a delicious taste,
And is the Oyl that makes those Colours last.
Who ever tyes that Miserable Knot,
And thinking sure to find it, finds it not,
Words are too Poor to paint his more than Cursed Lot!
For she that let her Tail to hire before,
Has now a Specious Mask to gild the Whore:
But She that brings it to the Nuptial Bow'r,
She that preserves it Sacred to that Hour,
Has in her future Conduct double Pow'r;
For what in Maids Virginity we Name,
In Chast and Faithful Wives does ripen into Fame.
But Thou, accurst, and destin'd for our harm,
Cou'd never find the lucky Hour to charm:
Thou ne'er wert capable to give Delight,
All Lust your Love, as all Your Anger's Spite.
When you were Young, and for a Change might please
Some Fop that did not Fear the foul Disease,
We never heard of Thee in Lines like these;
Then 'twas Amintor, Strephon, Gentle Swain;
And Songs, (writ in a Melancholy Strain)
Made known thy want of Venus thro' the Plain.
Not all thy Prime so fortunate cou'd prove,
Among such Crowds, to give One Creature Love.
What now then when thy Borrow'd Charms have fail'd,
The Paint wash'd off, and all the Fiend unveil'd;
And not a Refuge left to drudge for Life,
(Now past a Bawd) but to Commence a Wife;
A Wife! If any Man so rash will be
To leap that Horrid Precipice for Thee:
That Husband's Fate in Wedlock's hard to guess,
Only thus far—that Hell's a Torment less.
Cou'd never find the lucky Hour to charm:
Thou ne'er wert capable to give Delight,
All Lust your Love, as all Your Anger's Spite.
When you were Young, and for a Change might please
Some Fop that did not Fear the foul Disease,
We never heard of Thee in Lines like these;
Then 'twas Amintor, Strephon, Gentle Swain;
And Songs, (writ in a Melancholy Strain)
Made known thy want of Venus thro' the Plain.
21
Among such Crowds, to give One Creature Love.
What now then when thy Borrow'd Charms have fail'd,
The Paint wash'd off, and all the Fiend unveil'd;
And not a Refuge left to drudge for Life,
(Now past a Bawd) but to Commence a Wife;
A Wife! If any Man so rash will be
To leap that Horrid Precipice for Thee:
That Husband's Fate in Wedlock's hard to guess,
Only thus far—that Hell's a Torment less.
Yet Man You curse; and Woman, his Delight,
He must not see by Day, nor touch by Night,
Why, cou'd You do Your Sex a Plaguier Spite?
Or yet your self? for ev'ry Eye may see
That Curse wou'd fall most heavily on Thee:
From Fifteen on to Fifty thou hast known
What Man was Carnally, nor lain alone
Without one, two, or more, but with Regret and Moan.
But well, You shew Y'are of th'Inconstant Kind,
Your Word a Riddle, and a Whirl your Mind:
For tho' but now so fast Your Clapper ran
To make Your Injur'd Sex abandon Man;
Yet next w'are blam'd, that can so Barbarous prove,
Drunk, to neglect the Great Affair of Love.
Her fulsom Itch is far from being gone,
That loves by Drunkards to be Belcht upon!
What Modest Dame, that had a Spouse so ill,
Wou'd not Implore her Stars to have him still?
This Beastly Animal's beneath our Curse;
But She that then can Fondle him, is worse,
Swine as he is, cou'd he your Appetite
But answer, you'd imbrace him with delight.
As Wine's Provocative You like it well,
But, as it Spoils Performance, hate it more than Hell;
So not meer Drink occasion'd this Disgust,
But as't un-nerves Desire, and baulks Expecting Lust.
He must not see by Day, nor touch by Night,
Why, cou'd You do Your Sex a Plaguier Spite?
Or yet your self? for ev'ry Eye may see
That Curse wou'd fall most heavily on Thee:
From Fifteen on to Fifty thou hast known
What Man was Carnally, nor lain alone
Without one, two, or more, but with Regret and Moan.
But well, You shew Y'are of th'Inconstant Kind,
Your Word a Riddle, and a Whirl your Mind:
For tho' but now so fast Your Clapper ran
To make Your Injur'd Sex abandon Man;
Yet next w'are blam'd, that can so Barbarous prove,
Drunk, to neglect the Great Affair of Love.
Her fulsom Itch is far from being gone,
That loves by Drunkards to be Belcht upon!
What Modest Dame, that had a Spouse so ill,
Wou'd not Implore her Stars to have him still?
This Beastly Animal's beneath our Curse;
But She that then can Fondle him, is worse,
Swine as he is, cou'd he your Appetite
But answer, you'd imbrace him with delight.
As Wine's Provocative You like it well,
But, as it Spoils Performance, hate it more than Hell;
22
But as't un-nerves Desire, and baulks Expecting Lust.
Is this the Wife to all Enjoyment lost?
Is this the Female-Innocence You boast?
If this may pass for Vertue, Bawds are Chast;
Hags, grim as Death, are with all Sweetness grac'd;
Beauty, not vain; a thrice-flux'd Actress, just;
And Monarchs shining Strumpets free from Pride and Lust.
Is this the Female-Innocence You boast?
If this may pass for Vertue, Bawds are Chast;
Hags, grim as Death, are with all Sweetness grac'd;
Beauty, not vain; a thrice-flux'd Actress, just;
And Monarchs shining Strumpets free from Pride and Lust.
But Thou, who in a loose and frontless Strain,
Vertue, and Vertuous Women dost Profane,
Blush first, then hear thy Injur'd Sex complain.
For one, in Rage, is singl'd from the Throng,
In Shape an Angel; and her Heav'nly Tongue,
Her Speech to Thee directed, thus redeems Their Wrong.
Vertue, and Vertuous Women dost Profane,
Blush first, then hear thy Injur'd Sex complain.
For one, in Rage, is singl'd from the Throng,
In Shape an Angel; and her Heav'nly Tongue,
Her Speech to Thee directed, thus redeems Their Wrong.
Shame of our Sex! What Rage inflames thy Breast?
Or for Inspir'd, have you mistook Possest?
In Maiden Verse, there shou'd no Words be seen
But what reveals the Innocence within.
Of things Ridiculous, I dare maintain
Nothing's so senseless, frivolous and vain,
As thinking all our Fau'ts in Publick shown
When not a Line, but what unveils your own.
A thousand Times be Harlots call'd Obscene,
It no Reproach can to the Vert'ous mean:
Nor does Adult'rous Wife reflect on me,
While I walk Hand in Hand with Modesty;
But she that does resent it, that Ill Wife is She.
The Tender Place will quickly tell 'tis bare;
For if we shrink, the Satyr Lances there:
And this may be laid down a Standard Rule,
Relate to whom it will; Punk, Pimp, or Fool.
What Credit can to thy Defence accrue,
But that his Satyr sat too close on You,
And like Strait Stays made You unlace for Air?
As Pounds imply what brought the Cattle there:
Sated with Lawfull Grass they leap't the Bound:
O never let us quit that Fertile Ground
Where Vert'ous Herbage Springs, and Honour rais'd the Mound.
His Hate of Falshood, not his Love of spite,
Ground his Inveterate Spleen, and bid him Write:
A Perjur'd Nymph depriv'd him of his Rest;
When Her, and all like Her he banish'd from his Breast.
Who dare Accuse Him for so just a Deed,
To save the Corn by Rooting out the Weed?
That Worth's his Care is plainly understood,
For pulling down the Ill must raise the Good.
Yet if You were Resolv'd to write to show
Your Parts, (which don't distinguish Friend from Foe,)
Why was it Rhime? (But Rage all Sense devours)
That scandal to their Sex, and worse to Ours.
'Tis not as formerly, when 'twas the Use
For Verse t'Instruct, as now 'tis to Traduce;
As from your own Example can you plead excuse?
Remember how the Chast Orinda Wrote,
With all the Grace and Modesty of Thought?
Rapt we all stood, nor knew which to prefer,
Whether to read her Verse, or gaze on Her:
Thro' all her works apparently does shine
A Spark that shews her Nature was Divine;
While only Spite and Fury Actuate thine.
Our Female Poesie is chang'd since then;
For Songs Obscene fit not a Woman's Pen:
Nor Satyr is our Province; let 'em throw
Their Darts, while we are Chast we ward the Blow.
O! let us not be Snakes beneath the Flower.
Nor Ill because we know it in our Power;
But keep in thought the last, the scrutinizing Hour:
For after Death a strict Account Succeeds;
Our Idle Thoughts are Punisht with our Evil Deeds.
Then thou dost talk of Love at such a Rate
As drawn by Thee, 'tis what we ought to Hate,
A freakish, Hair-Brain'd, Bess of Bedlam State.
Love, the Soft Seal, by which alone we find
Something of Angel stamp't on Human-kind;
While we, like Wax, to the Impression bow,
And find our Souls are One, we know not how
And, like Translated Saints, Ascending flee,
Rapt up to a Third Heav'n of Extasie.
This is the Fate that Constancy does prove;
And such is always the Reward of Purity in Love.
But in thy Numbers 'tis a Lapland Witch
Sailing thro' Air, astride, upon a Switch,
Mumbling of Wicked, but successless Spells,
And tho' You fail to hurt, it still your Envy tells.
In short, both thine and Ariadne's Rage
Only a General Ruin can Asswage:
Both Good and Bad, at once, must blended go,
And the whole Race be ended at a Blow;
And all your Reason,—You wou'd have it so.
What worst of Furies, (cou'd they have their Will)
Wou'd talk so boldly, and Design so Ill?
Forbear thy Scribling Itch, and Write no more;
When You began 'twas time to give it o'er:
What has this Age produc'd from Female Pens
But an Obsceneness that out-strides the Men's?
Succeeding Times will see the Diff'rence plain,
And wonder at a Style so loose and vain;
And what shou'd make the Women rise so high
In Love of Vice, and scorn of Modesty.
For why are You concern'd a common Whore
Shou'd be turn'd off; and Providence once more
Her Senseless Cully, to his Wits restore?
Of Cashier'd Punks so feelingly You speak,
You have been serv'd, sure, some such Slipp'ry Trick;
And so by Sad Experience (as You sing)
Know but too much of it;—a Barb'rous Thing!
Your Language all along is Loose and Vile,
We see your want of Manners in your Stile.
Your Words Outrag'ous, but their Meaning weak,
And writ with the same Caution Bullies speak.
Coherence their is none; thy Genius warms
No more than now thy Face, at Fifty, Charms.
To all a Nusance, to Your self a Plague;
And but a step between Thee and a Toothless Hag—
But I forbear Thee; and may He forbear
You write against, and not be too severe:
If such Scurrility you long pursue,
No Creature e'er will be so Maul'd as you:
Your Fau'ts and Follies He'll to all make plain;
And in his bold, Satyrick, angry Vein,
Set a worse Mark on Thee than GOD on Cain.
But may He spare Thee—Here she wou'd give o'er:
And I will spare Thee;—for a Whore's a Whore.
Or for Inspir'd, have you mistook Possest?
In Maiden Verse, there shou'd no Words be seen
But what reveals the Innocence within.
Of things Ridiculous, I dare maintain
Nothing's so senseless, frivolous and vain,
As thinking all our Fau'ts in Publick shown
When not a Line, but what unveils your own.
A thousand Times be Harlots call'd Obscene,
It no Reproach can to the Vert'ous mean:
Nor does Adult'rous Wife reflect on me,
While I walk Hand in Hand with Modesty;
But she that does resent it, that Ill Wife is She.
The Tender Place will quickly tell 'tis bare;
For if we shrink, the Satyr Lances there:
And this may be laid down a Standard Rule,
Relate to whom it will; Punk, Pimp, or Fool.
23
But that his Satyr sat too close on You,
And like Strait Stays made You unlace for Air?
As Pounds imply what brought the Cattle there:
Sated with Lawfull Grass they leap't the Bound:
O never let us quit that Fertile Ground
Where Vert'ous Herbage Springs, and Honour rais'd the Mound.
His Hate of Falshood, not his Love of spite,
Ground his Inveterate Spleen, and bid him Write:
A Perjur'd Nymph depriv'd him of his Rest;
When Her, and all like Her he banish'd from his Breast.
Who dare Accuse Him for so just a Deed,
To save the Corn by Rooting out the Weed?
That Worth's his Care is plainly understood,
For pulling down the Ill must raise the Good.
Yet if You were Resolv'd to write to show
Your Parts, (which don't distinguish Friend from Foe,)
Why was it Rhime? (But Rage all Sense devours)
That scandal to their Sex, and worse to Ours.
'Tis not as formerly, when 'twas the Use
For Verse t'Instruct, as now 'tis to Traduce;
As from your own Example can you plead excuse?
Remember how the Chast Orinda Wrote,
With all the Grace and Modesty of Thought?
Rapt we all stood, nor knew which to prefer,
Whether to read her Verse, or gaze on Her:
Thro' all her works apparently does shine
A Spark that shews her Nature was Divine;
While only Spite and Fury Actuate thine.
Our Female Poesie is chang'd since then;
For Songs Obscene fit not a Woman's Pen:
Nor Satyr is our Province; let 'em throw
Their Darts, while we are Chast we ward the Blow.
24
Nor Ill because we know it in our Power;
But keep in thought the last, the scrutinizing Hour:
For after Death a strict Account Succeeds;
Our Idle Thoughts are Punisht with our Evil Deeds.
Then thou dost talk of Love at such a Rate
As drawn by Thee, 'tis what we ought to Hate,
A freakish, Hair-Brain'd, Bess of Bedlam State.
Love, the Soft Seal, by which alone we find
Something of Angel stamp't on Human-kind;
While we, like Wax, to the Impression bow,
And find our Souls are One, we know not how
And, like Translated Saints, Ascending flee,
Rapt up to a Third Heav'n of Extasie.
This is the Fate that Constancy does prove;
And such is always the Reward of Purity in Love.
But in thy Numbers 'tis a Lapland Witch
Sailing thro' Air, astride, upon a Switch,
Mumbling of Wicked, but successless Spells,
And tho' You fail to hurt, it still your Envy tells.
In short, both thine and Ariadne's Rage
Only a General Ruin can Asswage:
Both Good and Bad, at once, must blended go,
And the whole Race be ended at a Blow;
And all your Reason,—You wou'd have it so.
What worst of Furies, (cou'd they have their Will)
Wou'd talk so boldly, and Design so Ill?
Forbear thy Scribling Itch, and Write no more;
When You began 'twas time to give it o'er:
What has this Age produc'd from Female Pens
But an Obsceneness that out-strides the Men's?
Succeeding Times will see the Diff'rence plain,
And wonder at a Style so loose and vain;
And what shou'd make the Women rise so high
In Love of Vice, and scorn of Modesty.
25
Shou'd be turn'd off; and Providence once more
Her Senseless Cully, to his Wits restore?
Of Cashier'd Punks so feelingly You speak,
You have been serv'd, sure, some such Slipp'ry Trick;
And so by Sad Experience (as You sing)
Know but too much of it;—a Barb'rous Thing!
Your Language all along is Loose and Vile,
We see your want of Manners in your Stile.
Your Words Outrag'ous, but their Meaning weak,
And writ with the same Caution Bullies speak.
Coherence their is none; thy Genius warms
No more than now thy Face, at Fifty, Charms.
To all a Nusance, to Your self a Plague;
And but a step between Thee and a Toothless Hag—
But I forbear Thee; and may He forbear
You write against, and not be too severe:
If such Scurrility you long pursue,
No Creature e'er will be so Maul'd as you:
Your Fau'ts and Follies He'll to all make plain;
And in his bold, Satyrick, angry Vein,
Set a worse Mark on Thee than GOD on Cain.
But may He spare Thee—Here she wou'd give o'er:
And I will spare Thee;—for a Whore's a Whore.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |