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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| XI. | Dialogue XI. Between a Termagant Court-Lady, and her
Spouse, about settling in the Country.
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 | Nuptial Dialogues and Debates |  |
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Dialogue XI. Between a Termagant Court-Lady, and her Spouse, about settling in the Country.
Wife.Since you, my Dear, a Country Life admire;
You, if you please, may to your Seat retire;
In Fogs and Dews survey your fertile Grounds,
And strain your Hunters, to pursue your Hounds.
But be assur'd, that I abhor to dwell
A pensive Pris'ner in a rural Cell;
Where, by the break of Day, your bleating Sheep
And lowing Oxen, must disturb my Sleep:
Where croaking Ravens stretch their boding Throats,
To fright sick Gammers with their hideous Notes;
And with their Jargons of unwelcome Noise,
Call early Milk-maids, and their Clowns, to rise.
Go thither you, but I resolve to stay
In Town, where all Things look so spruce and gay,
And fresh Delights spring up with ev'ry new-born Day.
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Tho' I am kind, and study your Delight,
Love you all Day, and hug you close at Night,
I find you will be stubborn, Chloe, still,
Whose chiefest Pleasure is to thwart my Will.
Love you all Day, and hug you close at Night,
I find you will be stubborn, Chloe, still,
Whose chiefest Pleasure is to thwart my Will.
Why, Madam, do you thus torment my Life,
And strive to prove the Devil of a Wife?
What have I done to make you so perverse?
Bad you were always, but you now grow worse.
As if the Serpent, that debauch'd Mankind,
Had sooth'd thy Lust, and left his Sting behind.
And strive to prove the Devil of a Wife?
What have I done to make you so perverse?
Bad you were always, but you now grow worse.
As if the Serpent, that debauch'd Mankind,
Had sooth'd thy Lust, and left his Sting behind.
Wife.
You take me sure, to be a monst'rous Brute!
What, do you think me Satan's Prostitute?
Thank you, my Husband, you're extreamly civil;
I fear, my Love, you're jealous of the Devil.
Husband.
My Dear, consid'ring what a Shrew you're grown,
I've almost cause to think you two are one;
And that both Satan and your self, agree
To gratify your Pride in plaguing me.
What ever Measures for my Ease I take,
You contradict, and labour still to break;
And prove, in spite of all that Man can do,
The worst tormenting Devil of the two.
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What Crimes have I committed, to incur
Such Usage, and so vile a Character?
Were e'er your Secrets by my Tongue betray'd?
Or have I once defil'd your Marriage Bed?
Have I at Basset, Omber, or Picquet,
Lavish'd your Gold, and lessen'd your Estate?
Do I go mobb'd to Play-house, or to Park,
To steal some luscious Moments with my Spark?
Or plague you Monthly with a Mercer's Bill,
From Covent-Garden, or from Ludgate-Hill?
Do I drink Ratafea, like Lady Punk,
And cry, the Vapours, when I'm maudlin drunk?
Or waste your Treasure in Physicians Fees,
To humour each new fanciful Disease?
Were I indeed like some that you admire,
False, wanton, proud, profuse in my Attire,
You then might use me thus; but I defy
Your servile Spies to prove I've trod awry.
Husband.
You say you're honest; I believe so too;
But Faith, my Dear, you're a confounded Shrew.
What signifies your Virtue, when your Tongue
Is with a thousand Plagues and Torments hung?
So full of taunting Clamour and Abuse,
None sure would bear it, but so tame a Goose,
That's numb'd with Patience by continual Use.
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Bless me, Sir Humphry, you had need complain
Of Womens Tongue, for being loose and vain,
When those provoking Freedoms that you take,
Would urge a Stone, if possible, to speak.
How can you think, that I should patient be,
And hear you thus affront my Quality?
Have you not call'd me Shrew? O piercing Sting!
And can a Lady be so vile a Thing?
Foh! you provoking Man, the very Name
Ferments my Blood, and puts me in a Flame.
Had I the Daughter of an Hostess been,
Nurs'd up with Ale in some White-Chappel Inn;
Or had I been some home-spun Country Blowze,
Bred up to serve the Hogs, and fodder Cows,
Such Words might then have suited my Degree;
But Shrew, I'd have you think's no Name for me!
Such Terms are only fit for coarser Mold;
Ladies may talk, but Ladies cannot scold.
Husband.
If bitter Words provokingly exprest,
With all the Malice of an angry Breast;
If Passion, Fury, and a clam'rous Tongue,
With noisy, spiteful Contradictions hung;
If a curs'd Temper, haughty and perverse,
Subtl' as a Serpent, as a Tyger fierce;
Unruly as the Jade that scorns the Bit,
Not back'd in Time, too fiery to submit;
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Or stand stock-still, when he should make most Haste;
If Disregard of Heav'n, and Nature's Laws,
And loud Complaints without a real Cause;
If stubborn Pride, repugnancy of Will,
And treach'rous Tears, like those of Crocadile;
If thwarting Prattle, everlasting Tease,
And Resolutions ne'er to be at Ease;
Publick Contention, and untimely Jars,
Noisy Cat Favours, and nocturnal Wars;
If these good Qualities make Women Saints,
Instead of restless Shrews and Termagants,
Then, Madam, I'll agree with you, and own,
Drabs may be Scolds, but Ladies can be none.
Wife.
I know you're mad, that I refuse to go
Where dusky Woods abound, and Rivers flow;
Where Birds in Groves their doleful Ditties sing,
And Fairies dance by Moon-shine in a Ring;
Where melancholy Owls, who shun the Light,
Hoot to their moon-ey'd Mates their Love by Night;
Where rural Swains their noisy Revels make,
And o'er their Joans, their Leathern Breeches shake;
Where Sun-burnt Slaves, on Holy-days repair,
With their tann'd Trulls, to ev'ry Wake and Fair;
Dance round their May-poles, till their clumsy Feet
Poyson their Nostrils with their stinking Sweat;
Till sick of their dull Sports, the Gluttons fly
To th'Ale-house Orchard, hungry, hot, and dry;
There with March-Beer, coarse Apple-pye, and Cheese,
Cram their wide Gullets, and their Palates please;
Till drunk and mad, then to conclude their Feast,
With sturdy Blows decide who danc'd the best.
Where dusky Woods abound, and Rivers flow;
Where Birds in Groves their doleful Ditties sing,
And Fairies dance by Moon-shine in a Ring;
Where melancholy Owls, who shun the Light,
Hoot to their moon-ey'd Mates their Love by Night;
Where rural Swains their noisy Revels make,
And o'er their Joans, their Leathern Breeches shake;
Where Sun-burnt Slaves, on Holy-days repair,
With their tann'd Trulls, to ev'ry Wake and Fair;
Dance round their May-poles, till their clumsy Feet
Poyson their Nostrils with their stinking Sweat;
Till sick of their dull Sports, the Gluttons fly
To th'Ale-house Orchard, hungry, hot, and dry;
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Cram their wide Gullets, and their Palates please;
Till drunk and mad, then to conclude their Feast,
With sturdy Blows decide who danc'd the best.
Are these Delights for Chloe's Youth design'd?
Thanks to your Love; I'll swear you're wondrous kind.
You know, my Dear, such Pastimes must agree
Most nicely with my Birth and Quality!
Thanks to your Love; I'll swear you're wondrous kind.
You know, my Dear, such Pastimes must agree
Most nicely with my Birth and Quality!
Can you believe, that I, who long have known
The various Pleasures of this charming Town,
The Grandeur of a Court, where all Things shine,
As if the Place was Heav'n, and Man divine,
Can quit such Blessings, for a rural Life,
Adapted to a Plough-man and his Wife,
Or poor dispairing Souls, who chuse to dwell
In Solitude, to wait their Passing-Bell?
No, no; I thank my Stars, I'm in my Wits:
Troubl'd with no such melancholy Fits.
I'm not grown lunatick with cloudy Dreams
Of flow'ry Meads, dark Groves, and purling Streams,
I'm not in Love; I want no Rosy Bow'r
To meditate on Shadows by the Hour.
The various Pleasures of this charming Town,
The Grandeur of a Court, where all Things shine,
As if the Place was Heav'n, and Man divine,
Can quit such Blessings, for a rural Life,
Adapted to a Plough-man and his Wife,
Or poor dispairing Souls, who chuse to dwell
In Solitude, to wait their Passing-Bell?
No, no; I thank my Stars, I'm in my Wits:
Troubl'd with no such melancholy Fits.
I'm not grown lunatick with cloudy Dreams
Of flow'ry Meads, dark Groves, and purling Streams,
I'm not in Love; I want no Rosy Bow'r
To meditate on Shadows by the Hour.
Nor am I bred to Pickles or Preserves,
Or to make Balsams for your feeble Nerves.
I cannot teach your Maids to bake or brew,
Or distil Cordials for your Grooms and you.
I am no Doctress, that pretends to cure
The Coughs and Ptisicks of your neighb'ring Poor;
Or have I Skill or Charity to spread
A Plaister for a bruis'd or broken Head;
Or can I boast so much Humility,
To salve the Cut-Thumbs of your Family;
And, upon all Occasions, undertake
The nauseous Drudg'ry of a rural Quack.
Therefore if you expect that I should prove
So great a Slave, to manifest my Love,
You're much deceiv'd; I'd sooner chuse the Life
Of a Town Miss, than such a Country-Wife.
Or to make Balsams for your feeble Nerves.
I cannot teach your Maids to bake or brew,
Or distil Cordials for your Grooms and you.
I am no Doctress, that pretends to cure
The Coughs and Ptisicks of your neighb'ring Poor;
Or have I Skill or Charity to spread
A Plaister for a bruis'd or broken Head;
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To salve the Cut-Thumbs of your Family;
And, upon all Occasions, undertake
The nauseous Drudg'ry of a rural Quack.
Therefore if you expect that I should prove
So great a Slave, to manifest my Love,
You're much deceiv'd; I'd sooner chuse the Life
Of a Town Miss, than such a Country-Wife.
Husband.
Nobly resolv'd, most condescending Spouse.
Who'd think the Lady should out-do the Blowze?
And that a Wife of your illustrious Birth,
Possess'd of so much Vertue, Wit, and Worth,
Should rather chuse to prostitute your Charms,
Than quit the Town, where Vice profusely swarms?
Break thro' the Fences of your Marriage-Trust,
And become servile to another's Lust,
Before you'd wave your Humour to fulfil
The just Engagements of your Husband's Will?
Who'd think the Lady should out-do the Blowze?
And that a Wife of your illustrious Birth,
Possess'd of so much Vertue, Wit, and Worth,
Should rather chuse to prostitute your Charms,
Than quit the Town, where Vice profusely swarms?
Break thro' the Fences of your Marriage-Trust,
And become servile to another's Lust,
Before you'd wave your Humour to fulfil
The just Engagements of your Husband's Will?
If Lady Wives have Right to disobey
Their wedded Lords, who ought to bear the Sway:
If Ladies have a Privilege to rule,
To rave, contend, teaze, bicker, and controul,
As if their Fortune, Beauty, and their Blood,
Made them, if bad, appear divinely good;
Would I had first preserv'd some rural Maid,
From Cowl and Hog-tub, to my nuptial Bed,
Or chosen some poor, harmless, tatter'd Wench,
From Herb-stall, or from off some Alley-bench,
Ere I had curs'd my Sheets with such a She,
That boasts so much of Birth and Quality,
Yet can out-scold a Trull, a Wapping Quane,
But do't, forsooth, with a more graceful Mein;
Teaze and torment at an imperious Rate,
But still take Care to domineer in State.
Since these your Ladyship's Perfections are,
Which I am doom'd by Wedlock thus to bear;
As Gilders cover Brass and Dross with Gold,
And Gard'ners over Dung sift finest Mold;
So you may boast a Lady's outward Skin,
But, by my Soul, you're Drab and Dev'l within.
Their wedded Lords, who ought to bear the Sway:
If Ladies have a Privilege to rule,
To rave, contend, teaze, bicker, and controul,
As if their Fortune, Beauty, and their Blood,
Made them, if bad, appear divinely good;
Would I had first preserv'd some rural Maid,
From Cowl and Hog-tub, to my nuptial Bed,
Or chosen some poor, harmless, tatter'd Wench,
From Herb-stall, or from off some Alley-bench,
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That boasts so much of Birth and Quality,
Yet can out-scold a Trull, a Wapping Quane,
But do't, forsooth, with a more graceful Mein;
Teaze and torment at an imperious Rate,
But still take Care to domineer in State.
Since these your Ladyship's Perfections are,
Which I am doom'd by Wedlock thus to bear;
As Gilders cover Brass and Dross with Gold,
And Gard'ners over Dung sift finest Mold;
So you may boast a Lady's outward Skin,
But, by my Soul, you're Drab and Dev'l within.
| Nuptial Dialogues and Debates | |