Nuptial Dialogues and Debates Or, An Useful Prospect of the felicities and discomforts of a marry'd life, Incident to all Degrees, from the Throne to the Cottage. Containing, Many great Examples of Love, Piety, Prudence, Justice, and all the excellent Vertues, that largely contribute to the true Happiness of Wedlock. Drawn from the Lives of our own Princes, Nobility, and other Quality, in Prosperity and Adversity. Also the fantastical Humours of all Fops, Coquets, Bullies, Jilts, fond Fools, and Wantons; old Fumblers, barren Ladies, Misers, parsimonious Wives, Ninnies, Sluts and Termagants; drunken Husbands, toaping Gossips, schismatical Precisians, and devout Hypocrites of all sorts. Digested into serious, merry, and satyrical Poems, wherein both Sexes, in all Stations, are reminded of their Duty, and taught how to be happy in a Matrimonial State. In Two Volumes. By the Author of the London Spy [i.e. Edward Ward] |
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| XX. | DIALOGUE XX. Between a very talkative Madam, and her merry drunken Husband,
who always us'd to sing when his Wife scolded.
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 | Nuptial Dialogues and Debates |  |
DIALOGUE XX. Between a very talkative Madam, and her merry drunken Husband, who always us'd to sing when his Wife scolded.
Wife.I wonder that you'll stay so late;
This sitting up, you know, I hate.
Why will you put me in a Fright,
By tarry'ng from me half the Night,
And make me think you've met with some
Affront or Mischief, coming Home?
You're sensible I ne'er can close
My Eyes, or take the least Repose,
If I should go to Bed without you,
My Heart's so full of Fears about you.
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The Love that to a Wife was due,
Would serve a Woman so, but you.
Husband
sings.
Let us fill, and let us drink,
Wine will drive all Care away;
If your Bus'ness bids you think,
Postpone it to another Day.
Why should a Man become a Slave
To Wealth, to Bus'ness, or a Wife?
The merry Glass is all we have
To sooth the vexing Plagues of Life.
Wife.
Yes, yes, I know the merry Glass
Is all you covet to embrace;
The Sots, with whom you lead your Life,
Are dearer to you than your Wife.
The Room behind the Tavern-bar,
Is better than your House by far;
And now and then a flatt'ring Kiss
That's stoll'n from Madam, or her Niece,
Is more esteem'd from one less fair,
Than all your lawful Pleasures are,
And with a greater Gust enjoy'd
Than the stale Favours of your Bride.
So those, who near the Forest live,
For coarser Meat will Ven'son give,
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And makes them think the worst the best.
Husband
sings.
A Woman's a talkative Creature,
Her Tongue is perpetually moving,
When vex'd, she's all over ill Nature;
When pleas'd, she's too fond and too loving.
A flattering Fool may decoy her,
She's easily tempted to Evil;
Tho' an Angel before we enjoy her,
She often proves after a Devil.
Wife.
Who was't you ever found so easy,
So forward, fond, and free to please ye?
Did ever I shew such Miscarriage,
Till bound to condescend by Marriage?
Was I inclin'd to step aside,
Ere I became your lawful Bride?
Could your fine Tongue prevail with me
To shew the least Immodesty,
Till first oblig'd by nuptial Vows
To humour a desirous Spouse;
To love, to honour, and obey,
And please you in an honest Way?
Abroad, perhaps, you've met with those,
That, if but flatter'd, would expose
Their Charms, and when you think you've won
Their Hearts, prove Devils when they've done.
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And lead debauch'd and drunken Lives,
Meet with such Ladies of the Town,
That they may learn to prize their own,
And know the Diff'rence 'twixt a common
Prostitute, and a vertuous Woman.
Who in this wicked Age is slighted,
Whilst Sluts are treated and delighted.
Husband
sings.
She that has sinn'd, would fain be thought
Divinely good and chaste;
All Womens failings, 'till they're caught,
Lie hid beneath the Waste.
The Harlot rails against her Trade,
To those that do not know her,
Altho' sh'as been in private made
A thousand times a Whore.
You say you're just; you may be so,
Your Word is all I've for it;
But whether you are chaste or no,
My Comfort is my Claret.
I value not the nuptial Tease
Of Tail or Tittle-tattle;
No Woman shall disturb my Ease,
My Mistress is the Bottle.
Wife.
'Tis evident enough, you Sot,
You're wedded to the Tavern Pot;
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With that, much more than with your Wife;
Make it your principal Delight
To hug the Poyson Day and Night;
Whilst I must unregarded stay
At home, and sigh my Time away;
Be no more valu'd than a Slave,
Or the worst Houshold-Stuff you have.
Can all your Kindness, heretofore
So oft repeated o'er and o'er;
Your courtly Vows and Protestations;
Your Sighs, and your Asseverations,
And all the Charms of my Embrace
Be drown'd already in the Glass?
Had I foreseen your Love would grow
So cool, you should have pin'd 'till now,
Ere I'd have foolishly comply'd
To've been a Tavern-Hunter's Bride:
But Wedlock's a deceitful State,
Wherein Repentance comes too late;
Nor can mistaken Woman see
Her Fault, 'till past a Remedy.
But still remember sh'has a Tongue
To tell, and to revenge her Wrong;
And if that Sting cannot perplex ye
Enough, sh'as other Ways to vex ye.
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sings.
The best a Scold can do,
Shall never much delight me;
The Threats of such a Shrew
Shall never vex or fright me.
Her fickle wav'ring Smiles
Shall ne'er have Pow'r to please me;
The worst of all her Ills
Shall ne'er provoke or tease me.
Her Tongue, tho' as loud
As the Shouts of a Croud;
Her Tail, tho' as free
As a Woman's can be,
I no more would regard her, Abroad or at Home,
Than a treacherous Jilt, or a noisy Drum;
But when sober and sad, to my Bottle would fly,
And her female Revenge both despise and defy.
Wife.
You're mighty stout, the Vine be prais'd,
Now Claret has your Courage rais'd.
So Cowards, when with Wine inspir'd,
Will brave those Dangers that they fear'd;
But when again they're sober grown,
Will tremble at the Risks they've run.
Your Singing shews the Tavern-Pot
Has made you a most valiant Sot,
That soars, now drunk, above the Dread
Of publick Scorn, or forked Head,
And all the shameful Ills that wait
Upon a Wife's revengeful Hate.
Now Claret has your Courage rais'd.
So Cowards, when with Wine inspir'd,
Will brave those Dangers that they fear'd;
But when again they're sober grown,
Will tremble at the Risks they've run.
Your Singing shews the Tavern-Pot
Has made you a most valiant Sot,
That soars, now drunk, above the Dread
Of publick Scorn, or forked Head,
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Upon a Wife's revengeful Hate.
But should I from my Duty swerve,
And plague you as you well deserve;
In Tears set forth my sad Complaint
To some young amorous Gallant;
Tell how I'm slighted, disbelov'd,
And what a naughty Man you've prov'd;
Meet him, and junket up and down,
'Till made the common Talk o'th' Town,
And you, to share the vile Disgrace,
Be call'd poor Cuckold to your Face;
And, as you walk the publick Street,
Be pointed at by those you meet;
Not with one Finger, but a Pair,
To signify what Crest you bear,
And, when you tax me with my Crimes,
Confess I've don't a hundred times;
Rave, rattle, bluster, like a Bully,
And call you Cuckold, Fumbler, Cully;
Frown, and deny you, when you want
Those Favours I to others grant;
Yet make you labour, drudge, and sweat,
To keep those Brats that others get.
And plague you as you well deserve;
In Tears set forth my sad Complaint
To some young amorous Gallant;
Tell how I'm slighted, disbelov'd,
And what a naughty Man you've prov'd;
Meet him, and junket up and down,
'Till made the common Talk o'th' Town,
And you, to share the vile Disgrace,
Be call'd poor Cuckold to your Face;
And, as you walk the publick Street,
Be pointed at by those you meet;
Not with one Finger, but a Pair,
To signify what Crest you bear,
And, when you tax me with my Crimes,
Confess I've don't a hundred times;
Rave, rattle, bluster, like a Bully,
And call you Cuckold, Fumbler, Cully;
Frown, and deny you, when you want
Those Favours I to others grant;
Yet make you labour, drudge, and sweat,
To keep those Brats that others get.
Such Usage, I am apt to fear,
Would make you change your Tune, my Dear;
Cause you to knit your careless Brow,
And soon turn all your Songs, which now
You think so merry, and so witty,
Into a dull and doleful Ditty;
For, tho' a Wife's Revenge may seem
A Trifle in a drunken Dream,
Yet, if let loose, it may subdue
A Husband more robust than you:
An angry Wasp, that does but dart
Her Sting, will make you feel the Smart:
So small an Insect as a Flea,
Has Pow'r to vex the stoutest He;
Yet these inflict so small a Pain,
That cannot reach the Heart or Brain;
But an inrag'd, revengeful Wife,
Strikes home, and punishes for Life;
And still the more that you oppose,
More strong and desperate she grows;
And when provok'd, will prove too hard
For Man, in spite of all his Guard.
Would make you change your Tune, my Dear;
Cause you to knit your careless Brow,
And soon turn all your Songs, which now
You think so merry, and so witty,
Into a dull and doleful Ditty;
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A Trifle in a drunken Dream,
Yet, if let loose, it may subdue
A Husband more robust than you:
An angry Wasp, that does but dart
Her Sting, will make you feel the Smart:
So small an Insect as a Flea,
Has Pow'r to vex the stoutest He;
Yet these inflict so small a Pain,
That cannot reach the Heart or Brain;
But an inrag'd, revengeful Wife,
Strikes home, and punishes for Life;
And still the more that you oppose,
More strong and desperate she grows;
And when provok'd, will prove too hard
For Man, in spite of all his Guard.
Husband
sings.
Altho' you prove worse and worse,
Your Policy still shall fail;
For I have Command of my Purse;
As much as you have of your Tail.
You may scold 'till you tire your Tongue,
I never shall mind your Noise,
You may whore, and be pox'd, now young,
And when rotten, repent of your Joys.
If you please, you may humour your Lust,
But shall neither have Cloths or Coin,
Unless at some other Fool's Cost;
For you ne'er shall be lewd at mine.
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I can govern my own Estate;
And whether you're false or true,
I'll be easy in spite of Fate:
For I'll spin out my Days
With my Friend, and my Glass,
And as oft as I please
Have a jolly young Lass;
Never mind an ill Wife, let her run to the Devil,
But live as if freed from so teasing an Evil.
Wife.
Sing on, my Dear, my Ears can bear it;
O rare Effects of costly Claret!
Immortal Red secures your Mind
Against all worldly Cares, I find,
And makes you wisely soar above
The Thoughts of Marriage, and of Love;
But a Night's Rest will tame your Crown,
And fetch your wand'ring Fancy down;
Reduce you to a mortal State,
Tho' now so God-like, and so great.
One Morning's Dish of healing Tea,
Will cure this drunken Lunacy;
Dethrone th'imaginary King,
And make you quite another thing.
So those in Fevers often think
They're God knows what, like Men in Drink;
But Opiates, taken in due Season,
Give Rest, and that restores their Reason;
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That puff'd 'em up, were only Dreams.
Husband
sings.
Tho' Drinking makes us mad,
Yet Scolding makes us worse;
That's good, which makes us glad,
What plagues us, is a Curse.
Would Women silent prove,
'Twould hinder Man's Excess;
The more at Home we love,
Abroad we drink the less.
But if Wives will be Shrews,
And their Husbands amuse
With impertinent Wrangle and Prattle,
Then away do we fly
To some Tavern that's nigh,
And bemoan our selves over the Bottle.
Wife.
If Man to Drinking is inclin'd,
A small Excuse will serve, I find.
But since your Ears cannot agree
With Woman's weak Loquacity,
Excuse what's past, and I'll remember
To bridle my unruly Member;
For who, that's airy, brisk, and young,
Would not restrain a nimble Tongue,
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Of a much sweeter Exercise?
| Nuptial Dialogues and Debates | |