The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy Prose and Verse [by Edward Ward] |
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Advice to an Old Lady, who has bury'd Six Husbands and sets up for the Seventh.
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 | The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy |  |
Advice to an Old Lady, who has bury'd Six Husbands and sets up for the Seventh.
Forbear old Beldam, 'tis, I vow, a Crime,
To think of Wedlock thus a seventh time;
Age that has plow'd up your declining Face,
Robb'd you of e'ery youthful charming Grace;
Decay'd your Plumpness, melted down your Fat,
And left rude Furrows where your Cupids sate,
New bleach'd your Eye-brows, snow'd upon your Crown
And turn'd your sable Locks to milky Down,
Destroy'd those Iv'ry Fences, that when young
Adorn'd your Ruby Lips and tun'd your Tongue,
Age that has made you Baren and Diseas'd,
Jealous, perverse, too peevish to be pleas'd;
Nausious and useless in a Marry'd State,
Penur'ous, haughty, full of senseless Prate,
Methinks by this time might have found a way,
To've made you Grave and Wise instead of Gay;
Can you not see in your deceitful Glass,
The flabby Wrinkles of your wither'd Face?
And how the greasy white Pomatum shines
In all those aged Crevises and Lines,
Which flattering Unguent does too plainly shew
You are not only Old but Vicious too?
And that your Age, which no Device can hide,
Is still dishonour'd with your Lust and Pride;
Patches and Paint, which foolishly you wear,
To give your ancient Face a modern Air,
Makes you, in spite of Art, appear before,
But like a rotten House new painted o're,
Whose Front, although new daub'd, yet shews decay
And looks at best but scandalously gay.
Your lofty Tow'r that's mounted up so high,
And gaudy Topknot of a youthful Dye,
Takes not one Year from off your wringled Brows,
But shews us you're an old lascivious Blowze,
That courts th'Embraces of a seventh Spouse;
So have I often seen a founder'd Jade,
Wretchedly old, and cursedly decay'd,
Adorn'd with Scutcheons Streamers, and with Plume,
Which did the hide-bound Jade but ill become,
Drawing a tatter'd Herse by light of Torch,
From Russel's State-house to some neighb'ring Church,
Yet all his Trappings did but ill disguise,
His spavin'd Heels, lean Sides, and hollow Eyes,
For still the crazy broken winded Beast
Look'd old and ugly tho so finely drest.
And only fit to put the World in Mind
Of Death, the Conqueror of all Mankind,
Whose Carravan came rumbling on behind;
Just so, mistaken Dame, tho you desire
To hide your crippl'd Age with gay Attire,
Yet all's in vain, for wheresoe'er you move,
Death follows with his Dart instead of Love.
To think of Wedlock thus a seventh time;
Age that has plow'd up your declining Face,
Robb'd you of e'ery youthful charming Grace;
Decay'd your Plumpness, melted down your Fat,
And left rude Furrows where your Cupids sate,
New bleach'd your Eye-brows, snow'd upon your Crown
And turn'd your sable Locks to milky Down,
7
Adorn'd your Ruby Lips and tun'd your Tongue,
Age that has made you Baren and Diseas'd,
Jealous, perverse, too peevish to be pleas'd;
Nausious and useless in a Marry'd State,
Penur'ous, haughty, full of senseless Prate,
Methinks by this time might have found a way,
To've made you Grave and Wise instead of Gay;
Can you not see in your deceitful Glass,
The flabby Wrinkles of your wither'd Face?
And how the greasy white Pomatum shines
In all those aged Crevises and Lines,
Which flattering Unguent does too plainly shew
You are not only Old but Vicious too?
And that your Age, which no Device can hide,
Is still dishonour'd with your Lust and Pride;
Patches and Paint, which foolishly you wear,
To give your ancient Face a modern Air,
Makes you, in spite of Art, appear before,
But like a rotten House new painted o're,
Whose Front, although new daub'd, yet shews decay
And looks at best but scandalously gay.
8
And gaudy Topknot of a youthful Dye,
Takes not one Year from off your wringled Brows,
But shews us you're an old lascivious Blowze,
That courts th'Embraces of a seventh Spouse;
So have I often seen a founder'd Jade,
Wretchedly old, and cursedly decay'd,
Adorn'd with Scutcheons Streamers, and with Plume,
Which did the hide-bound Jade but ill become,
Drawing a tatter'd Herse by light of Torch,
From Russel's State-house to some neighb'ring Church,
Yet all his Trappings did but ill disguise,
His spavin'd Heels, lean Sides, and hollow Eyes,
For still the crazy broken winded Beast
Look'd old and ugly tho so finely drest.
And only fit to put the World in Mind
Of Death, the Conqueror of all Mankind,
Whose Carravan came rumbling on behind;
Just so, mistaken Dame, tho you desire
To hide your crippl'd Age with gay Attire,
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Death follows with his Dart instead of Love.
Therefore, for shame old Grannum think no more
Of Wedlock, but your fruitless hopes give o're;
For mourning Weeds exchange your gaudy Dress,
That do so ill become that ancient Face.
Keep to your Closet, Penitence and Pray'rs,
Should be the Works of your declining Years.
Beg Pardon that your killing Charms have fed,
The Grave with six kind Husbands from your Bed.
Remain Content, and think them not too few,
The number is a above a Woman's due:
But if a Seventh Fool should be decoy'd,
To shoot that Gulph which has 3 brace destroy'd,
And for your Wealth should mount a fatal Jade,
That has such havock of your Spouses made,
May the Hot Oven of thy murd'ring Lust,
Calcine him like the other Six to Dust.
Of Wedlock, but your fruitless hopes give o're;
For mourning Weeds exchange your gaudy Dress,
That do so ill become that ancient Face.
Keep to your Closet, Penitence and Pray'rs,
Should be the Works of your declining Years.
Beg Pardon that your killing Charms have fed,
The Grave with six kind Husbands from your Bed.
Remain Content, and think them not too few,
The number is a above a Woman's due:
But if a Seventh Fool should be decoy'd,
To shoot that Gulph which has 3 brace destroy'd,
And for your Wealth should mount a fatal Jade,
That has such havock of your Spouses made,
May the Hot Oven of thy murd'ring Lust,
Calcine him like the other Six to Dust.
| The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy | |