University of Virginia Library

I. [The First Volume]

DIALOGUE I. Between a surly Husband, and condescending Wife.

Husband.
Here, Wife, lets' see my Slippers, Cap and Gown;
Help off my Coat. Z---s, Madam, how you frown,
As if, thro' Pride, you thought your self too good
T'attend your Husband as a Woman shou'd?

Wife.
My Dear, what makes you think so, when you find
None can be more obliging, none more kind?
Am I not always ready to obey?
Or do I contradict whate'er you say?
But nimbly run at your Commands, as if
I was your Servant, rather than your Wife;
Yet all my diligent Endeavours seem
Too negligent to merit your Esteem.

Husband.
'Tis true, that you obey what I command,
But still 'tis done with an unwilling Hand;
A sullen Pride does on your Brows appear,
And shews you humble not thro' Love, but Fear,
As if your seeming Readiness to please,
Was for your own bye-Int'rest, and your Ease,
And not th'Effect of Duty which you owe,
Or that Affection which a Wife should show;
Therefore you only do what you repent,
Because you act without the Mind's Consent;
For ev'ry Look, when you obey, betrays
Your Person and your Will move diff'rent ways.

Wife.
My Dear, my humble Temper you mistake,
And from your own this rash Construction make.
Those who with Jaundice Eyes behold the Dame
That's fair, conceit her tinctur'd with the same.
Tis true, when peevish, you command me to
What's fitter for a servile Drudge to do,
'Than for a lawful Wife, yet I obey
Your harsh Commands without the least Delay;
Tho' your Injunctions often seem severe,
From whence, you being conscious that you err,
Fansy I scornfully perform that Act,
Which is in you ill Nature to exact,
Well knowing 'tis unmanly to impose
Upon a Wife, who so much Temper shows,
And that she justly may refuse a Task
Which is in you tyrannical to ask;
Therefore you think I've but a slender Mind
T'oblige, because you know your self unkind,
And that, alas! you do too oft require
Things barb'rous for a Husband to desire.

Husband.
Wives, Madam Pert, are in a servile State,
Should silently obey, and never prate.
'Tis Insolence to frown, or knit your Brows,
And bold Rebellion to upbraid your Spouse.
Man from his Maker sov'reign Power derives,
And ought to reign in Triumph o'er his Wives;
Many he was allow'd, when they were such
That would obey, but one is now too much.
Women are spoil'd since Men so fond are grown,
The Subject now usurps the nuptial Throne,
And doating Man, by Nature born to rule,
Is made, by Love, his Woman's servile Tool,
Must give the haughty Minx the upper hand,
And for his Ease obey his Wife's Command,
Flatter the Gipsy to improve her Pride,
And stoop to her o'er whom he should preside:
But I'll be no such Foe to human Race,
I'll keep my Pow'r, and make you know your Place:
I scorn, by such Examples, to betray
Others to bend to those that should obey.
Husbands and Kings should be alike severe;
'Tis Vertue in 'em both to be austere;
For we, alas! by long Experience find
Both are ill us'd if lenitive and kind;
Despis'd, oppos'd, involv'd in endless Strife,
One by his Subjects, t'other by his Wife;
Therefore expect I'll ever bear the Sway,
And prove a Tyrant, if you disobey.

Wife.
I own, my Dear, you have a native Right
To rule, and 'tis my Duty to submit,
That ev'ry Wife should true Allegiance own
To 'er lawful Spouse, as Subjects to the Throne;
But still a Husband's Pow'r may be misus'd,
And vertuous Wives, by their Commands, abus'd;
Be basely injur'd, slighted, and opprest,
Thro' the false Motives of a jealous Breast,
Tho' their whole Lives have been a Scene of Care,
And prudent Circumspection not to err;
Therefore 'tis hard, in such a wretched Case,
Vertue, thus highly wrong'd, should want Redress.
Kingdoms, we see, when Princes do exert
Their sov'reign Power to their own Subjects Hurt,
Will use their utmost Diligence to free
Themselves from a tyrannick Slavery,
And think it Justice to restrain that Pow'r,
Which ceases to protect, and would devour;
Therefore, since you this Parallel have made,
That Husband's like to Kings should be obey'd,
Why have not Wives, when they're abus'd, as well
As injur'd Subjects, Title to rebel?

Husband.
The Husband's wedded to his servile Wife
By Heav'n, as Kings are to their Thrones for Life.
When thus united, all Men are forbid
To break those Bonds that God himself has ty'd,
The Wife accepts her Husband as her Lord,
Is bound to hon'r 'im, and obey his Word;
And sins, whenever she his Will withstands,
Or makes herself the Judge of his Commands:
None but the prating, proud, rebellious Shrow,
Presumes to dictate what her Spouse should do,
Or will, thro' Pride, contentiously dispute
Her Husband's Pow'r, which should be absolute.
A prudent Wife a willing Temper shows,
Comes when she's call'd, and when commanded goes,
Does with Submission his Desires fulfil,
And asks no Reasons, but obeys his Will,
Knowing her Duty is to humbly bend,
And ne'er to murmur, cavil, or contend;
For Wives and Subjects, when they durst oppose
Their lawful Sov'reign, or their lawful Spouse,
Both to deter the rest from like Offence,
Ought to be punish'd for their Insolence.

Wife.
I'm willing to obey; but yet, my Dear,
Methinks you ought not to be so severe:
Woman's the weaker Vessel, and by Chance
May give some small Offence thro' Ignorance.
Such little Slips and Failings should not move
A Husband's Anger, or impair his Love.
Things may be taken ill, not ill design'd,
Or the Tongue err abstracted from the Mind;
And Faults, methinks, without the Will's Consent,
Cannot in Justice merit Punishment.

Husband.

Wife.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Tho' the Man's surly, proud, perverse]

Dialogue II. Between an extravagant Husband, and a prudent Wife.

Wife.
Why, my dear Damon, will you waste your Wealth,
Beggar your Children, and impair your Health,
By daily treating ev'ry idle Guest
With riotous Excesses of the best?
Why will you cringe to such a worthless Crew
Of flatt'ring Fools, where no Respect is due,
And with expensive Wines your Cellars fill,
That gorging Sots may from your Table reel,
Who with stretch'd Bellies quit your nauseous Room
To spew your Bounty up 'twixt that and Home?

Husband.
Tease me not thus, my Dear, perhaps I think
There is no other Pleasure, but to drink:
Why then, to please a Wife, should I resign
These two Delights, good Company and Wine?
What, tho' I've Children, must their Father be
A Slave to add to their Prosperity,
And be a Niggard to my self and Friend,
That you and they may have the more to spend?
No, Madam, tho' I love both them and you,
I shall regard my self a little too,
And not abandon that supream Delight,
That crowns the Day, and gives me Rest at Night;
Nor frown upon my Friends, to please a Wife
That would abridge me of the Joys of Life.

Wife.
But you mistake, my Dear, and fansy those
To be your Friends, that are your greatest Foes.
Can flatt'ring Spungers, who your Tables fill,
At your Expence to gormandize and swill,
Who for your Banquets haunt you ev'ry hour,
And praise those Dainties which themselves devour;
Commend your Wines, which from your Cellars flow,
And complement the Vanity you show;
Applaud your Bounty to a high Degree,
Call your Profuseness Generosity;
New subtle Ways amidst their Cups invent,
To make you still the more extravagant?
But what Returns have your Companions shew'd?
What Services perform'd? What Gratitude
Have you receiv'd from your expensive Treats
Of rich Galicia Wines, and costly Meats?
Can any one of those you call your Friends,
Who only flatter for their own Bye-Ends,
Beneath their slender Circumstance, repay
The Obligations of one drunken Day?
Are they not careless Sots, and Spend thrifts all,
Whose Merits are but low, and Fortunes small,
Unworthy of those Favours you bestow,
And all th'expensive Friendships which you show?
Fie, fie, my Dear, it grieves my Breast to see,
Such worthless Fellows should your Ruin be;
Nor is it more than what becomes a Wife,
To beg a Husband to reform his Life;
For nothing less than Mis'ry can attend
Such vain Extreams, in the unhappy End.

Husband.
I cannot but allow, my charming Soul,
A Woman may advise, but not controul.
I own, that in some Measure I'm to blame,
And thou shal't find I'll labour to reclaim;
But still there must a happy Union be
Betwixt the Bottle, and my Friend, and me.
I love a chearful Glass; all other Joys
Which many boast of, are to me but Toys;
'Twixt Wine and Friendship I am only blest,
Give me but these, the World may take the rest.

Wife.
Think not, my Dear, that I presume so far
As in the least t'ingage you to debar
Your self of those Delights you value most,
Altho' attended with the greatest Cost:
All I entreat, is, that you'd grow more shy
Of that bad Company you treat so high,
And not be ruin'd by a thankless Crew
Of worthless Sycophants, you know not who;
Such who are needy, scandalous, and base,
Who only fawn and flatter to your Face.;
But in your Absence make you but their Sport,
And blame your Bounty, tho' it's their Support,
Nay, ridicule your Forwardness to do
Those very Things that they induce you to;
Therefore, my Dear, such Company forbear,
And you'll be much more happy than you are:
Give o'er your Treats, invite 'em not to dine,
Or, if you do, be sparing of your Wine,
And I'll engage you'll find your Belly-Friends
Will soon forsake you, when they lose their Ends.
'Tis not your Person or your Parts they prize,
But that which makes you but appear less wise;
'Tis your Profuseness they alone admire,
With hold but that, your Friends will soon retire;
Therefore, my Dear, for once, let me advise,
If you'd be rid of those you should despise,
Keep but the Bottle back, and drunken Friendship dies.

Husband.
I must confess, my Dear, that I have been
Too kind and generous, but now begin
To see my Folly, ere it's grown too late,
And shall have more Regard to my Estate,
Than to be beggar'd; for I own I find
My Debts increasing, and my Wealth declin'd.
I know 'tis Time I should with hold my Hand,
Or I must soon raise Money on my Land;
Therefore I thank thee for thy kind Advice,
I'll be less generous, and become more wise.

Wife.
Look on your spritely Son; behold the Boy,
Whose lovely Features fill us both with Joy.
Is it not hard that such a Babe should come
To want that Wealth which thankless Sots consume,
And, thro' your vain Exravagance, be glad
To be some Lady's Page, or Vintner's Lad?
Look on your Daughter, view her charming Face,
Where Beauty shines with Innocence and Grace:
Is it not Pity that so sweet a Child
Should be by Sots and Sycophants beguil'd,
And when her Breasts to nuptial Ripeness swell,
Should want a Fortune that might match her well?
Would it not rend your troubl'd Soul, to see
So fair an Offspring doom'd to Drudgery;
Or when she's fit for a kind Husband's Arms,
Be forc'd, thro' Want, to prostitute her Charms?
Consider, Dearest, this must be their Fate,
'Less you're more frugal ere it proves too late;
Therefore, my Dear, 'tis not my self I heed,
But for your Children that I intercede;
Give not your darling Infants cause to curse
Your Flatt'rers, nay, their Father, which is worse,
When they in Tears dejectedly behold
Your Lands and Houses to some Miser sold:
Look with Compassion on their tender Years,
And put a Stop to all these growing Fears,
Then will your self and Family be blest,
And Joys, as yet unknown, enrich your Breast:
The Gods themselves, who on your Revels frown,
Will with a pleasing Aspect then look down,
And with their Smiles your Reformation crown.

Husband.
These Thoughts, my Dearest, make my Heart relent;
You've struck so Home I cannot but repent;
Nor can I blame you for the Truths you speak,
But am concern'd to think my self so weak.
I own I love thee, and thy charming Brood,
And grieve to think I should neglect their Good;
Thy kind Advice has such an Impress made,
As if thy Words were Laws to be obey'd;
So just thy Counsels, and thy Charge so true,
That by their Pow'r I'm chang'd to something new;
Am conscious of those Faults which you reprove
With so much Prudence, Decency, and Love:
Nor shall thy bless'd Endeavours lose their Aim,
For thou shalt find that I'll at once reclaim,
And from this happy Hour, reform my House
From flatt'ring Sots, who at my Charge carouse;
And for my dearest Childrens Sake, and thine,
No longer be a Slave to vicious Wine;
But live reserv'd, and drink a mod'rate Glass
With Friends that scorn to be obscene, or base;
No vain Delights, with so much Cost, pursue,
But still be thoughtful of my Babes and you,
And be no more a Bubble to a thirsty Crew.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Some Husbands, who, thro' want of Wit]

Dialogue III. Between a dying Wife, and a profligate Husband.

Wife.
Now, dear Philander, we shall quickly part,
My Eyes grow dim, and Death has seiz'd my Heart:
I hope ere long to be for ever bless'd,
Where happy Souls by Angels are caress'd,
And dwell in Peace above the spangl'd Skies,
Where no Disputes or nuptial Jars arise;
But where the vertuous Wife shall be secur'd
From all those Hardships she on Earth endur'd.
My dear Philander, now too late you know
'Tis to your Wrongs that I my Sickness owe;
Those fatal Slights, which you so oft have show'd,
Have crush'd me down beneath their pond'rous Load.
Had you been kind, I might have long surviv'd
Th'approaching Hour, and twice my Age have liv'd;
But you, alas! have shook the fatal Glass,
And now the fleeting Sands pour down apace.

Husband.
Forgive me, Dear, I own I've been unkind,
But let not what is pass'd disturb thy Mind:
Chear up thy Spirits, comfort up thy Heart,
Thou'rt yet but young, it is too soon to part.
I'm sure you will not die this Bout; for Wives,
Like Cats, the Wise report, have many Lives;
Therefore a Woman's Sickness who would heed?
They threaten long before they go indeed.

Wife.
I know my Pangs cannot affect your Breast,
But 'tis a dreadful Season for a Jest:
Have Patience, in a little Time you'll see
Death will dissolve the Tye, and set you free;
My last unhappy Day is fled and gone,
No more shall I behold the rising Sun,
Or from this cold uncomfortable Bed
Of Sorrow, move or raise my dying Head.
Feel my slow Pulse, thou stony hearted Man;
Behold my Icy Cheeks so pale and wan:
Can you believe I have the impious Art
To thus dissemble Death in ev'ry Part?
O! cruel Wretch, that can forbear to shed
One Tear of Sorrow from a shaking Head,
Nor warm my frozen Cheeks amidst my Pains
With one poor Kiss, whilst fading Life remains.
Tho' you have long been faithless and unkind,
Yet sure my Mis'ries might affect your Mind,
And melt you, now the Pangs of Death appear,
To drop at parting one relenting Tear.

Husband.
Were you as sick as you pretend to be,
And I the ghastly Signs of Death could see;
If Tears would make the palled Tyrant fly,
I then perhaps might play the Fool, and cry;
But Women have such Ways, that few can tell
When they're in Jest or Earnest, sick or well,
Because they're subject to dissemble Pain,
And oft, for little Cause, or none, complain.

Wife.

Husband.
Thou still keep'st steady to thy old Extreams;
Scolding and Praying were thy usual Themes:
A Wife's Devotion is not worth a Pin,
Except the Husband be reprov'd therein;
Each Fault of his be sure must fetch a Groan,
Although perhaps she quite forgets her own.
Go on, my Dear, 'tis Pleasure to my Ears
To hear you mix Reflexions with your Pray'rs:
It looks as if you had not long to live,
Because you do not heartily forgive.

Wife.
I'm not disturb'd at your Unkindness past,
But grieve to see you slight me thus at last,
When a few Hours will all my Pains remove,
And put a Period to my nuptial Love.
Have I not always been a faithful Wife,
Regardful of the Comforts of your Life;
Careful and kind, obliging ev'ry Way,
Forward to please, and willing to obey?
And do I not deserve one Sigh or Groan
At the last dying Gasp, for what I've done?
O! wretched Woman, and ungrateful Man,
Whose Wrongs have rent my Heart at half my Span;
But I forgive thee with a Christian Mind,
And beg, when gone, you'll to my Child be kind.
O! now I'm sliding to my last Repose,
An Icy Circle does my Heart inclose.
Alas! where am I? Clouds of gloomy Night
Darken my Eye-balls, and eclipse the Light.
O! kneel, and pray for my expiring Soul;
Methinks I do o'er tossing Billows rowl;
The raging Seas around my Body flow,
And watry Mountains dash me to and fro.
Where's my Philander? O! assist me, Dear!
O! save me, G*d.—I sink—I know not where.

Husband.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Ill Husbands oft good Wives despise]

Dialogue IV. Between a pert Lady, and an old fumbling Libertine.

Wife.
'Tis to your Credit much, my Dear, to praise
The manly Actions of your younger Days;
You think you please me highly, to declare
Your youthful Frolicks with the wanton Fair:
Sure you expect I should commend the Feats
You've done long since between adult'rous Sheets,
And, that I ought to love you, for the Strokes
You've given, by the Bye, to other Folks.
For Shame, you fumbling Brute, now Age prevails
Above your Strength, forbear your Bawdy Tales,
And tell not me of Sluts you have enjoy'd,
What Children you have got, what Fools decoy'd.
Have you no Actions of your Life to boast,
But the past Revels of your former Lust?
No innocent Adventures you have had,
Not one good Deed to ballance all the bad?

Husband.
Prithee, my Honey, where can be the Harm,
If we with youthful Pranks our Fancies warm?
It's always held a Pleasure, when we're old,
To have our past unbearded Follies told.
I'll swear, my Ears delight to hear my Tongue
Revive the Frolicks that I had, when young.
In my Opinion, to repeat the Fact,
Is always far more pleasant than the Act.
Like an old batter'd Soldier, I am glad
To talk of the past Skirmishes I've had,
And tell the Hardships, shew my Wounds and Scars.
And boast of Rapes committed in the Wars.
Who'd value Honours, which such Hazards cost,
Should the Remembrance of our Deeds be lost?
What signifies all Hist'ry, but to show
What Fools our Fathers were long long ago?
Why therefore may not I delight my Ears
With my own Faults, as well as talk of theirs?

Wife.
Fie, you old fumbling Fool, d'ye take a Pride
To publish those Intrigues your Age should hide?
Are the past Pleasures of your vicious Life
Fit Entertainments for a youthful Wife?
Must I be teas'd with your lascivious Tales
Of am'rous Favours now your Vigour fails;
Hear all your luscious Freaks, when in your Prime,
And how you came thus grey before your Time?
Sure you design to spur me, if you can,
To slight your Age, and try some other Man,
That your declining Years might honour'd be
With some adult'rous Bastard-Progeny;
Else would you find some more obliging Way,
'Less your vain Talk should tempt my Youth astray;
Teach me to wean my Heart from Vertue's Rules,
And to despise grey Heirs and Spectacles.

Husband.
If a Wife's Vertue cannot stand the Test
Of a loose Tale, or Husband's merry Jest,
But lustful Thoughts must presently inflame
Her Breast, and make her wish to act the same,
She nothing wants but an obscene Attack
From one she likes, to fling her on her Back.
The Dame that's truly vertuous, will be free,
And, when amidst her Gossips, merry be;
Ne'er turn her Back upon a smutty Flirt,
Or, with her squeamish Fie Fies, spoil their Sport;
Ne'er struggle hard against a harmless Kiss,
Or redden, when a Word is dropp'd amiss.
Starch'd Modesty looks foolish in a Maid,
But ten times worse in Woman that is wed;
Makes her appear but like a cunning Jilt,
Whose Blushes shew her conscious of her Guilt.
By a wise Proverb, we have long been taught,
The Sow that's silent, drinks up all the Draught;
And that the Harlot, tho' in private free,
Can at a Christ'ning, mute and modest be.

Wife.

Husband.
How now, you youthful, giddy, prating Fool,
Am I turn'd Child, and come again to School?
It's a fine Age, when Girls begin to preach,
And younger Wives their older Husbands teach.
You're wond'rous modest of a sudden grown,
That not a Word of Smut will now go down,
As if you fancy'd you were still a Maid,
And ought to blush at merry Tales 'till wed,
'Less you should show, by an attentive Ear,
How well you love what now you cannot hear.

Wife.
I was a Maid, when to your Bed I came,
And may, for ought I know, be still the same;
You had need boast of all your mighty Feats
Perform'd long since between unlawful Sheets,
When you so long in vain have try'd to get
A lawful Heir t'enjoy your large Estate,
But have not shew'd sufficient Manhood yet!
You're wise to brag of your romantick Joys,
You're lovely Girls, and your parochial Boys,
Begot so briskly, could the Truth be known,
Not here, but on some Empress of the Moon.
Go, you old fumbling Letcher, blush for Shame
To be so lewd, when gouty, old, and lame;
Tell not your Wise of your debauch'd Extreams,
My Vertue scorns to hear such bawdy Dreams,
Invented to delight some beastly Crew,
And told so oft 'till you believe 'em true.
Timely consider, Penitence and Pray'rs
Will better far become your grisly Hairs;
Learn to extinguish all your vain Desires,
Those useless Ashes of your lustful Fires,
Which now are burnt so low, that they're become
No more than a mere Caput Mortuum.

Husband.

Wife.
Go, jealous Impotence, it's Time to walk,
And since your Mouth, grown foul with bawdy Talk;
For the brisk Bottle is a fitter Match,
Than a young Wife for such a fumbling Wretch,
Who, now he's old, is proud to be bely'd,
And brags of Favours which he ne'er enjoy'd.
So Bullies, that they may'nt be Cowards thought,
Boast of those Duels which they never sought,
As Fools report strange Conquests o'er the Fair,
Purely to seem more wicked than they are.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[He that has led a vicious Life]

Dialogue V. Between a wealthy Niggard, and his generous Termagant.

Wife.
What do you mean, my Dear, d'ye think I'll wear
A Grogram Stuff, as coarse as Camels Hair,
Such that I'm sure my very Maid would scorn,
Fit only by some Ale-wife to be worn?
Not I, indeed, pray take your home-spun Drug,
And give your Present to some Country Jug:
Let me have Money from your Hoard, that I
May go and chuse what best will please my Eye.
D'ye think, old Niggard, you shall buy my Cloaths,
Or bring me to the wear of such as those?
No, you shall sooner find, that I'll, by Stealth,
Force thro' your Locks to your imprison'd Wealth,
Make your Trunks fly, unseal your mouldy Bags,
Ere I'll be us'd to homely Stuffs or Rags.

Husband.
Prithee, be patient, Love, you can't but know
Taxes are very high, and Rents but low;
The Times are hard, Wives should not be so proud,
Money grows scarce; come, come, the Stuff is good
Don't be so stubborn, prodigal, and high,
You may be glad of worse before you die:
I've known good Women, nay, of Quality,
With larger Fortunes than you brought to me,
Think it no Scandal to appear in View
With a worse Gown, than what I've bought for you;
Pray therefore don't despise it at this rate,
The Stuff's a pretty Stuff, I tell you that,
And such that no good Housewife should disdain;
For Garments seem most modest, that are plain.

Wife.

Husband.
Why sure, you haughty Jezabel, you'd scorn
To shame your lawful Husband with a Horn,
And damn your Soul, as well as wrong your Spouse,
For a high Head, and a few tawdry Cloaths.
I find but what I fear'd, this 'tis to wed
A proud Virago so profusely bred,
Humour'd at Home, and taught at Dancing School
To scorn, for foreign Silks, your native Wooll;
To turn your Toes, to bridle up your Head,
And move, like formal Clock-work, as you tread;
To tune your Voice, to thrum on your Gittar,
And wash and paint, to make your Looks more fair.
You should have wed some Prodigal at Court,
A spend-thrift Coxcomb of the higher Sort;
Some little Monkey-Heir, decreed by Fate
Not to improve, but lavish an Estate.

Wife.
Use me not thus, you Money-loving Fool,
I am too good for such a narrow Soul,
Who values nothing but your hoarded Bags,
And cares not if your Wife went dress'd in Rags:
Had I your stingy Avarice but known
Before the Priest had curs'd me as your own,
Death, with a Halter, should as soon, I vow
Have noos'd me, as so poor a Wretch as thou,
Who slights Ease, Honour, Honesty, and Health,
And doats on nothing, but your ill got Wealth:
But since my tender Parents, for the Sake
Of Riches, led me into this mistake,
Believing no penurious Chirl could prove
Reserv'd to her, who so deserves your Love;
And since, repugnant to their Hopes and mine,
You less respect me, than your Idol Coin,
And o'er your Mammon keep so strict a Hand,
That I must beg what Woman should command,
Where e'er I come, I'll trumpet your Disgrace,
And make you 'ppear as odious as you're base;
Spit, like a Cat, my Venom and my Spite
All Day, and tantalize your Lust at Night;
Borrow of all that will be free to lend,
That you may pay what I profusely spend;
Take up rich Gowns and Petticoats on Tick,
Break thro' all Vertue, and at nothing stick;
Turn an eternal Scold, grow vile and lewd,
And curse your House with an adult'rous Brood;
Respect you less than now I do your Man,
Cheat and torment you ev'ry way I can;
Nay, cuff your Miser's Noddle, claw and tear,
That your thin Jaws my spiteful Marks shall wear.
Thus ev'ry way that Woman can contrive,
Revenge the barb'rous Usage that you give,
'Less you a more obliging Husband prove,
And, by your gen'rous Kindness, show your Love.

Husband.
What, Huzzy, will you turn a Thief, a Whore,
And make your self a Beast, a Common shore?
Afflict your Parents, and torment your Spouse,
Seek your own Misery, to shame my Brows?
Ruin your self, to be reveng'd on me,
And scandalize your own good Family?
Be the World's May-game, ev'ry Rascal's Sport,
Defile your Body, do your Soul such hurt,
And all because your odious Female Pride,
Is not with Silks and Sattins gratify'd?
Rare modest Resolutions, by my Life,
A well-bred Lady, a most vertuous Wife!

Wife.
Too honest, had my Vertue first been lost,
To be by such a Niggard's Arms ingrost,
Who places on your Gold your whole Esteem,
And thinks all other Pleasures but a Dream.
You can no Charms in female Beauty find,
'Less 'twas on Gold, like Cæsar's Image, coin'd;
Nor can you fancy Love affords Delight,
Except well paid for what you do at Night.
Go, mercenary Wretch, and hug thy Pelf,
Live like an Anch'rite starving by thy self;
Rowl in thy Wealth, live hated and forlorn,
And burrow in thy Bags, like Rats in Corn;
Tho' they, poor Vermin, do enjoy their Store,
Whilst you in Plenty starve, and wish for more,
They feast and revel whilst their Hoards do last,
But still you pine, and have no Pow'r to taste,
And labour, tho' in vain, to bring your Wife
To share the Curse of such a Beggar's Life.
But know, penurious Muckworm, that I scorn
My fleshy Sides, by Fasting, should be worn
To a poor starv'd Anatomy, like thine,
Debarr'd, by Av'rice, both of Food and Wine,
That when thou'rt dead, some Spend-thrift may confound
Those Heaps of Gold in Chains and Fetters bound:
But, Miser, thou shalt find, ere I'll comply
With thy coarse Fare, I'll make your Mammon fly,
Force you to spread your Table, like a Lord,
With the best Dainties that the Shops afford;
Allow me Silks and Laces, that agree
With your known Riches, and my Quality;
Else shall you feel the sharp Effects that wait
Upon an angry Woman's Scorn and Hate;
For I'll exert my Envy, and my Pride,
And prove the very Devil of a Bride.

Husband.
Did Husband ever hear so vile a Wretch?
Sure thou'rt some Spirit, Succubus, or Witch;
I took thee for a Saint, but find, alas!
Thy Heart is Iron, and thy Face is Brass;
Your Words fierce Thunder-bolts, that when you gape,
Confound my Ears at every dreadful Clap;
Your Temper too unruly, and your Pride
Too dev'lish to be humour'd or deny'd;
For should I strive to pleasure your Desires,
By granting what so proud a Shrew requires,
I must too lavishly supply your Wants,
And beggar'd be by your Extravagance;
If I refuse what you command or pray,
I then must be undone some other Way:
Thus, if I'm careful to Caribdis shun,
I must upon the Rocks of Scilla run.
Direct me, Heaven, how to steer my Course,
'Twixt female Pride, and Anger, which is worse.

Wife.
I'll tell you, Muckworm, if you'd happy be,
Transfer that Love you have for Gold, to me;
Value no Cost that can oblige your Wife,
And that's the Way to lead an easy Life:
But if your odious Stinginess be such,
To think I wear too good, or spend too much,
Then bitter Words your Miser's Ears shall warm,
And welcome Fools about my Beauty swarm;
Bully and Cuckold ye in spite of Fate,
And make you curse your Av'rice, when too late;
Tease, rob, and cheat you, bastardize your Race,
And all the World condemn you for an Ass,
Whilst I with Pleasure shall increase your Plagues,
And make your Life a Hell amidst your Bags;
Whose base imprison'd Dross shall ne'er procure
The Respit of one kind or happy Hour,
'Till thou shalt find, that Wealth is but a Dream,
And that a Wife, provok'd to an Extream,
Can, when she pleases, in an angry Mood,
Do thee more Harm, than Gold can do thee good.

Husband.
Prithee, my Dear, be patient, I'll be glad
To make thee easy, for I fear thou'rt mad;
Pride has bewitch'd thee, fill'd thy Breast with Evil,
And chang'd thee from a Woman to a Devil.
Thou art some Offspring of the Serpent's Seed,
Or Fury of the Amazonian Breed;
A mere Bellona, fit to bear a Shield,
And shew your head-strong Valour in the Field;
Destin'd to stand the Brunt of clashing Swords,
Or to fright Mankind with your daring Words.
Here, fiery Beldam, prithee take my Keys,
Do what you will, and lavish what you please;
Dress like a Dutchess, gratify your Pride;
Who dare deny so Termagant a Bride?
But rather purchase Ease, than to be stung
With the sharp Venom of so curs'd a Tongue.

Wife.

Husband.
Silence that dreadful Instrument, thy Tongue,
And I'll be glad to own I'm in the Wrong;
Give thee my All, with any Thing comply,
Cease but that hideous Thunder, which may vie
With those loud Claps that eccho thro' the Sky.
Let my poor Ears but be for ever freed
From that shrill piercing Clangor which they dread,
And I'll submit to all Things you can ask,
Perform, with Gladness, my Herculean Task;
Be lavish of the Gold I lov'd to save,
And give more largely than your self can crave;
Indulge your Pride in each expensive Whim,
Turn gen'rous Coxcomb to the last Extream;
Keep Crouds of lazy Slaves to fill your Hall,
And wait your Female Pleasure, when you call;
Provide you two nice Slatterns, to obey,
And dress you like a Puppit ev'ry Day,
Who know their Duty, when your lustful Charms
Lie ruffl'd in some brawny Blockhead's Arms:
You shall have all the Grandeur you desire,
As much as Quality themselves require;
Your Coach, your Spark, your Pimp, nay, Chaplain too,
To add a pious Grace to th'Ills you do;
Let me but live unbaited by your Tongue,
With dreadful Sound, and pointed Venom hung;
Plagues that no patient Husband would endure,
Could all he's Worth the cursed Torment cure;
Therefore take all, maintain what Port you please;
Rather than suffer such eternal Teaze,
Thou shalt command my Wealth, let me enjoy my Ease.

Wife.
You are mistaken, Sir; had I the Use
Of all your Gold, I'd scorn to be profuse:
My Fortune largely has increas'd your Store,
And to your wealthy Coffers added more;
Therefore, since Heav'n has been so kind, to grant
Such Riches, why should we delight in Want?
And, by a base penurious Life, destroy
That Ease and Comfort we may both enjoy?
Nay, draw upon our selves Contempt and Hate,
When we may claim Respect, and live in State;
Merit the World's Esteem, yet spend no more
Than half the Int'rest of our wealthy Store;
Maintain that Bounty which the World commends,
And keep a well spread Table for our Friends;
Be generous to all, relieve the Poor
With what is needful daily at your Door,
That their united Pray'rs to Heav'n may be
As efficacious as our Charity;
Deny your self no costly Food or Wine,
And Care of Bus'ness to your Slaves resign;
Dress to your Quality, wear what is good,
And never save by swerving from the Mode;
Want no Attendance needful, keep your Coach,
Pursue your Pleasures, but without Debauch,
And not starve on at this penurious Rate,
To be a Miser curs'd with an Estate?

Husband.
O! bless me, what a Race would Woman run!
I shall be beggar'd, baited, or undone;
Should I presume to live at this high Rate,
I ought to have, at least, a Lord's Estate.
O! you proud noisy Termagant, must I
Be plagu'd, or with my Ruin thus comply?
O! Heav'ns, how I'm involv'd 'twixt Curse and Curse,
And know not which is like to prove the worse?
However, since my Riches cannot soon
Be wasted, I'll the present Torment shun,
And, rather than be teas'd, submit to be undone.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[The Husband often blames his Wife]

Dialogue VI. Between a pert Lady and her Spouse, concerning Superiority in Wedlock.

Wife.
Sometimes you tell me I am pert and proud,
And that I talk perversly, and too loud;
Contend when 'tis my Duty to submit,
And ridicule your Follies with my Wit.

Husband.
'Tis true, Rosinda, you at publick Feasts
Use my Infirmities as common Jests;
Expose those Failings should be kept unknown,
And make my Faults the Subjects of your own.

Wife.
Wives with their Husbands, surely may be free;
A blushing Bride may take that Liberty,
And pass a harmless Jest, before she knows
What 'tis to bear a Darling to her Spouse.
'Tis true, a Virgin should in Silence sit;
For 'tis a Crime in Maids to show their Wit:
But Marriage, tho' a Woman's ne'er so young,
Always gives License to a female Tongue.
We covet Wedlock with the same Intent
As you contend to serve in Parliament;
Not thro' the Hopes of being made more rich,
But to enjoy the Privilege of Speech.
Like Patriots, Wives should dare to speak their Mind;
What Fool would wed, to have her Tongue confin'd?

Husband.
A Woman's Wit, her Self Conceit exalts,
And serves her chiefly to defend her Faults;
Gives her, on all Accounts, a fair Pretence
To Contradiction, Argument, and Sense;
Curs'd Talents in that head strong Thing, a Wife,
The baneful Seeds of Matrimonial Strife.
For how should Man his sov'reign Pow'r maintain,
If those who should obey, dispute his Reign?

Wife.

Husband.

Wife.
But Man has no Dominion o'er his Bride,
More than what's founded on his churlish Pride.
The Wife's his Partner, and has Right to share
His greatest Fortunes, well as meanest Fare.
Equal in Pow'r the Woman ought to be;
Both are by Marriage plac'd in one Degree:
Both the same Flesh, when made each other's Mate;
And both united in the self same State.
Man has no Title to the upper Hand;
Either may ask, but neither should command;
Nor can a Wife, by Disobedience, prove
A Rebel, tho' she falsifies her Love:
For since our Husbands have no Right to sway,
It is no Crime in Wives to disobey.

Husband.

Wife.
If Man has such a lawful Right to rule,
Suppose the Wife be wise, her Spouse a Fool;
Who then must manage and support the Weight
Of those Affairs that tease a marry'd State?
Or who the matrimonial Crown sustain,
The prudent Woman, or imprudent Man?

Husband.

Wife.
If Woman does the Weight of Bus'ness bear,
'Tis hard the Husband should the Honour wear!
Or if the Wife superior Wit can boast,
It seems unjust she should not rule the Roast!
But still, perhaps, be hector'd like a Slave
By a dull Coxcomb, or imperious Knave.

Husband.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[The Shrew, who has not Sense to know]

Dialogue VII. Between an Officer at his Departure, and his affectionate Wife.

Wife.
How can you leave me full of Fears and Cares,
To struggle with the Toils of distant Wars,
Where Fate, without distinction, meet the Brave,
And lays him level with the worthless Slave?
Let not your active Courage thus disdain
Your peaceful Mansion, for the dusty Plain,
Where thousands are by Destiny decreed,
In spite of human Fortitude, to bleed.
Why, Dearest, will you quit your downy Bed,
In a cold Tent to rest your drowsy Head,
Where killing Damps your Canvas Hut surround,
And do most Mischief when you sleep most sound?
Let me entreat you to resign your Post,
Let younger Brothers fill the Warlike Host;
You have Estate enough to live at Ease,
A vertuous Wife that studies how to please;
Fine Children to adorn your rural Seat,
Nay, all that can a happy Life compleat.
How then can you forsake such Joys as these,
And change, for foreign Wars, domestick Peace?

Husband.
I own, my Julia, it concerns me near,
That I must part with what I love so dear;
But by Command superior I am bound
To change, for distant Fields, my native Ground.
Princes, like Gods, o'er human Race bear Sway,
And we they rule, are destin'd to obey;
To guard their Honour, we no Fate must fear,
Tho' Dangers ne'er so dreadful do appear;
But when their Safety does our Aid require,
Plow raging Seas, or face destructive Fire,
On frozen Earth refresh our weary Bones,
And wade thro' wreaking Blood, to guard their Thrones.
These are the Paths that do to Honour lead,
Which Subjects, for the Sport of Kings, must tread;
When they command, our Duty bids us fight,
And hazard all, to do our Sov'reign Right:
No Wife or Children must retard our Speed;
We must be free to venture, tho' we bleed;
And he that's forward to defy his Fate,
If his heroick Deeds prove fortunate,
Fame shall with Honour crown his conqu'ring Sword,
And verdant Lawrels be his just Reward.
Who then can dread the Terror or Surprize
Of Death, that hopes for such a glorious Prize?

Wife.

Husband.
Your long Harangue with Patience have I heard;
But tho' I love you, cannot quit my Sword,
'Less, to oblige a Wife, I should incur
The Name of Coward, in the Time of War.
Soldiers, by Honour, and by Arms, are bound,
When Danger most appears, to stand their Ground;
Or how should Monarchs, when alarm'd Abroad
By Foes, upon their Thrones in Safety nod?
Were Men to humour Wives, no Land could be,
From slavish Bondage and Invasion, free.
Our haughty Neighbours soon would cross the Main,
And reap with Pleasure, what we sow with Pain;
Plunder our Houses, and by force subdue,
To their vile Lusts, our Wives and Daughters too;
Lead us in Fetters to our wish'd for Graves,
And breed our Sons to be their humble Slaves.
These, and a thousand Mis'ries should we feel,
Did we not arm, to conquer and to kill;
And by a bold Defence in Time of Need,
Baffle their Hopes, and their Designs impede.
Who then, that boasts the Spirit of a Man,
Would fear to shorten Life's uncertain Span
In such a Case, when common Safety cries
Aloud thro' ev'ry Town for fresh Supplies?
Have I not eat in Peace my Country's Bread,
And been for little Service largely paid?
Was I not proud in publick to appear
In Cloth of Honour, when no Foe was near?
And would ye tempt me to forsake my Arms,
Now the shrill Warlike Trumpet sounds Alarms;
And, to my Scandal, thro' your weak Advice,
To the whole World proclaim my Cowardice;
Resign my Post, deny my Prince my Aid,
For the soft Pleasures of a nuptial Bed?
No, Julia, tho' I love you as my Life,
I cannot lose my Honour for a Wife:
Tho' Antony was kind, as well as brave,
I scorn, like him, to be a Woman's Slave.

Wife.

Husband.

Wife.
O! cruel Man, will you forsake your Wife,
And these dear Babes, to sacrifice your Life?
Have we not all been dutiful and good,
And will you leave us now to wade in Blood?
Since all my feeble Arguments must fail,
Let a Wife's Tears, and Childrens Cries, prevail.
Why do you shake us off? How can you part
With all these Blessings that surround your Heart?
Cling round thy Father's Neck, my lovely Boy,
Kiss him and hug him close, my only Joy;
Hang by his Arm, my dearest Girl, and pray
That he'll be kind, and with your Mother stay.
Look on your pretty Babes, my only Dear;
Behold your Picture there, your Darling here;
Let tender Innocence your Pity move,
And melt your Breast into paternal Love.
Why will you fill us full of Cares and Fears,
And leave your mournful Family in Tears,
To hazard that dear Life, which, if it's lost,
Will all our Comfort in one Moment cost.
One single Person is of small Regard;
Your weak Assistance surely may be spar'd
From those united Legions, sent to try,
By Dint of Arms, the dreadful Lottery;
Therefore, my Dear, once more I humbly crave,
That you this fatal Expedition wave,
And not expose your Life on bloody Plains,
For those who scarce will thank you for your Pains.

Husband.
Should I my loyal Resolutions break
For Woman, when my Honour lies at Stake,
I should a Coward, or a Fool, appear,
By shewing too much Love, or too much Fear.
I am too just, my Dear, to quit my Arms,
Tho' I admire my Children, and your Charms;
But common Safety must prevail above
The Bonds of nuptial or paternal Love;
For in a just Regard of that, we shew
Our Duty to our Wives and Children too;
For the brave Soul that will undauted fight,
To do his Prince and native Country Right,
At the same Juncture succours and defends,
By noble Means, his Relatives and Friends;
Therefore, my Dear, no more entreat my stay,
For I'm resolv'd, and must with speed away.

Wife.
Since neither Tears nor Pray'rs will move your Breast
To ease my Grief, by granting my Request,
With aching Heart, and flowing Eyes each day,
I'll in your Absence for your Safety pray;
Implore the Gods to arm you against Fate,
That Vict'ry on your Sword may always wait:
But O! that Honour, which the Brave maintain,
Should rob a Woman of so dear a Man!

Husband.
Be patient, Love, content thy self a while,
Swift Time will quickly end our Summer's Toil,
Then in full Gladness we again shall meet,
And our past Absence make our Joys more sweet.
Till then, my Dear, I bid you all adieu,
And with this parting Kiss, my Love renew.
Keep Home, with decent Conduct rule your House,
And pray be thoughtful of your distant Spouse;
Encourage no loose forward Visiters,
The treach'rous World is full of Wiles and Snares;
But remain chearful, easy in your Mind,
Of your self careful, to your Children kind.
Farewell, my Darlings, free of all Offence,
May Heav'n protect your charming Innocence
Till I return, enrich'd with foreign Spoils,
That you may be the happier for my Toils.
Adieu, once more, ye Comforts of my Life,
My lovely Babes, and you my dearest Wife;
Dry up your Sorrows, sigh no more in vain,
For Time will make us happy once again.

Wife.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[A soldier should not be too soft]

Dialogue VIII. Between a kind and wealthy Wife, and her facetious Husband of inferior Fortune.

Wife.
'Tis true, the World condemns me for my Choice,
But I am blest, and in your Love rejoice:
Were the Knot void, which I so gladly ty'd,
I'd still endeavour to become your Bride;
In spite of Friends, my own Desires pursue,
And give my Fortune and my self to you.

Husband.
By th'Obligations you've upon me laid,
I hope, my Dear, we both are happy made;
For tho' you're rich and beauteous, you shall find
I'll ballance all, in being just and kind;
Be always careful to preserve your Ease,
Esteem your Love, and study how to please;
By soft indearing Means indulge your Life,
Preserve each happy Moment free from Strife,
And prove as good a Husband, as your self a Wife.

Wife.
Had I not, in your gentle Looks and Mein,
The peaceful Sweetness of your Temper seen,
And in your Carriage, and your Words, descry'd
Your Want of Wealth by Vertue was supply'd,
Tho' I had lov'd, I should have fear'd to join
A Heart, whose Truth I'd doubted of, with mine:
But I, my Dear, am so secure in you,
That I enjoy more Love than I can shew;
And in the manly Graces of your Mind,
A more than equal Satisfaction find;
Am richer far, in the respect you show,
Than you in all the Wealth I can bestow;
Nor does my Fortune equal your Deserts,
Or Charms reward your Vertues and your Parts.

Husband.
Had you, my Dear, no fertile Lands to boast,
Or Wealth t'adorn your Beauty with such Cost,
Your Charms alone, as they by Nature shine,
Without your Bags, had surely made you mine.
Those sweet Angellick Looks, so soft and fair,
Your easy Temper, and engaging Air,
Had needed no Addition, to prevail,
I should have long'd so much, and lov'd so well;
And thought your Graces, tho' of mean degree,
Had been a Fortune large enough for me.

Wife.
I am oblig'd, O! gen'rous Man, to hear,
That you my Person to my Wealth prefer;
Am pleas'd that I a double Blessing prove,
Not only in my Riches, but my Love;
For where there's either wanting, 'twill abate
The mutual Pleasures of a nuptial State.

Husband.

Wife.
I know, my Dear, what you assert is right,
For in your Love I centre my Delight;
Without that Blessing, I should only be
A pensive Wretch in rich Adversity;
Nay, for my Life, be destin'd to endure
Those Pains the wealthy Indies could not cure;
For gen'rous Love in vertuous Woman's Breast,
Without a just Return, admits no Rest;
Nor can her Fortune, tho' it's ne'er so large,
Her wishing Mind of am'rous Grief discharge.
What Woman then would bear that inward Smart
Which still improves, when kindl'd in her Heart,
And not, with Gladness, hazard all her Store
With him she loves, tho' ne'er so mean and poor?
Were I of all my Riches dispossest,
In you alone I should be truly blest;
For in one kind Embrace have I enjoy'd
More Comfort, than in all the World beside.

Husband.
If in my Arms you can so happy be,
How great must I think my Felicity,
Who am beyond my Merits blest by you,
Not only with such Wealth, but Beauty too;
Crown'd with the Graces of a gen'rous Mind,
Enrich'd by Heaven, and by Nature kind?
O! that I could but boast that equal Worth
Which ev'ry beauteous Charm of yours sets forth!
Or that, instead of being humbly bred,
I'd brought high Honours to your nuptial Bed;
Improv'd your Fortune by a large Estate,
And made you much more happy and more great!
I then might have deserv'd the Love you show,
Which is but now your Bounty to bestow.

Wife.

Husband.

Wife.
Thank you, my Dearest, that you vow to prove
A Pattern of true Gratitude and Love;
By Vertue's Rules we'll steer our happy Lives,
And shame ill Husbands and contending Wives,
Who, wanting Love and Prudence, spend their Days
In jarring Discords, which their Follies raise,
Blaming a nuptial State, when by their own
Provoking Means, they are, alas! undone;
A common Curse, by angry Heaven laid
On Smithfield Bargains, by their Parents made,
When only Fortunes or Estates are join'd,
And Children match'd against each other's Mind.
I therefore scorn'd that Av'rice should controul
My Love, or thwart the Dictates of my Soul;
But was resolv'd to hazard all my Worth,
Without Regard to Fortune, or to Birth,
And chuse the Object of my fond Desire,
Whose Person I could love, and Parts admire:
And you, my Dearest; are the only he
On whom I build my whole Felicity;
Nor do I doubt, but I shall always find
Your Temper gen'rous, and your Actions kind,
That wealthy rigid Parents, who refuse
Their Sons and Daughters Liberty to chuse,
May see, by us, that where there's mutual Love,
Unequal Matches may successful prove.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Tho' Money is the best sure Card]

Dialogue IX. Between an old drolling Gentleman with a Carbuncle-Nose, and his merry Tallow-fac'd Lady.

Husband.
How do'st, my Dear? thy Brother Dick and I
Have taken a delicious Glass hard by:
We drank your Health, my Love, amongst the rest;
Faith he's a merry Fellow at a Jest.

Wife.
Alas! you need not tell me where you've been;
That, by your fiery Gills, is eas'ly seen:
The blazing Comet that adorns your Face,
Too plainly shews you've hugg'd the juicy Glass;
For drink whate'er you please, the Liquor flows
Into your old repository Nose,
Which when so full it can no more retain,
Will, at one Squeeze, supply the Glass again:
Therefore 'tis needless you so oft should go
To th'Tavern, since you cannot chuse but know,
That what you drink one Day, may be of Use
The next, but press your Rubies for their Juice;
Nay, twice concocted, it may quench your Thirst
The second Time much better than the first.
Prithee, my Dear, come hither, you shall see
I'll make your Grapes yield Claret presently.

Husband.
How now, you Flirt! would you with Icy Hands
Prophane that Nose which in such Splendor stands;
That rev'rend Ornament which shines so bright,
And warms its Neighbours in a Frosty Night?
Stand off, thou pale Diana, come not near;
When the Sun shines, the Moon shou'd disappear.
Thy frozen Face extinguishes my Light,
And with its ghastly Looks, offends my Sight:
My glowing Nose, like burnish'd Gold, displays
A thousand dazzling and delightful Rays;
Flames like an Altar set on Fire, to move
The angry Gods to shew their wonted Love;
Whilst thy pale Snout dishonours human Race,
And proves a Scandal to a Christian Face.

Wife.
I'll swear you'd need applaud your fiery Beak,
That scorches, as it stands, each neighb'ring Cheek
As if your burning Mountain meant to prey,
Like Ætna, upon all Things in its Way.
Indeed, my Precious, if you thus carouse,
I'll have a Water-Engine in the House;
For if your chimick Nose has got the Skill
To extract Fire from Liquors that you swill,
Who knows, i'th' Night but your Grenado Head
May sneeze forth Lightning, and inflame my Bed?
Therefore, my Dear, I think its Time to shew
Our Care against such Dangers; what say you?

Husband.
My harmless Face will no such Aid require;
For thou'rt all Ice, as sure as I am Fire.
Lie thou but close to me, you need not doubt
To stop the Mischief ere the Flames break out;
The Water-Engine which you long have worn,
Will do the Feat, and quench me when I burn.
So Salamanders, 'less Report's a Ly'r,
With their cold Touch, subdue the fiercest Fire.
Thy frigid Nature does like Death appear,
And frozen Looks, shew Winter all the Year;
Whilst I, like sultry Summer, glow with Heat,
And with my flaming Nose, make others sweat.

Wife.
You'd need to boast of such a scarlet Snout,
So rough, so fiery, and so large about,
Whose blushing Glories ought to be your Shame,
Because t'Excess it owes its costly Fame.
What are your Rubies, but an odious Sign
That you're a Drunkard, and a Slave to Wine;
A Sot that hugs the Tavern Flask so close,
That Grapes in Bunches ripen round your Nose?
From whence do all those crimson Welks arise,
But from Intemp'rance and Debaucheries?
What makes your red Pimgennets shine so bright,
But gorging Bumpers in the Mid of Night,
Swilling, like Swine, at Revels that you keep,
Whilst wiser Mortals do enjoy their Sleep?
It's a great Honour, and a mighty Grace,
For Man to bear his Vices in his Face;
That as the Indian Snake his Age declares
By th'sundry Rattles in his Tail he wears;
So all that view your mangy Nose, may read,
In Scores of Rubies, what a Life you lead,
And, by their fresh and fiery Aspect, tell
What vicious Wine it is you love so well.
In my pale Countenance, the World may see
My female Temperance and Modesty,
And that I keep no private Closet Drams,
To drink unseen behind devouter Shams;
Or that I gossip with a tatling Crew
Of female Tiplers, till as drunk as you;
And when my Brains with Punch or Brandy flame,
Pretend the Vapours, to conceal my Shame.
My languid Looks sufficiently declare,
That I'm abstemious, as becomes the Fair,
Giv'n to no Vice that does my Face disguise,
Or shew its ill Effects in Nose or Eyes;
Whilst your Carbuncle Phiz in Triumph glows,
And bears your drunken Trophies round your Nose,
As if you'd conquer'd Thousands o'er the Glass,
Like Sampson, with the Jaw-bone of an Ass:
Therefore, since flaming Snout your Conquests show,
And your victorious Gills so famous grow,
Prithee, dear Turky-Cock, let's hear you crow.

Husband.
You Death-like Flirt, how dare you thus disgrace
So rich a Nose, on such a glorious Face?
You Cake of Snow, cemented by the Frost,
Were you once thaw'd, the Woman would be lost;
Begot in Eighty Four on Icy Thames,
When freezing Boreas had congeal'd its Streams.
Dare such a Winter's Brat prophane a Phiz
That warms the Air, and makes the Waters hiss;
A Face where Rocks of wealthy Rubies grow,
And Fountains of salubrious Claret flow?
I say, be silent, let my Nose alone,
The Theme's too great for you to preach upon;
So rich a copious Text is only fit
For jolly Priests and Poets fam'd for Wit:
I'd have thee therefore let the Subject drop,
So learn'd a Thesis is of wond'rous Scope,
And let's, like loving Friends, to Bed retire,
That we may kiss and hiss like Ice and Fire.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Wit, rightly us'd, will oft divert]

Dialogue X. Between a generous Husband, and his parsimonious Wife.

Husband.
What stingy Avarice invades thy Mind?
Why must I be to one coarse Dish confin'd?
Prithee forbear thy parsimonious Ways,
Let me with Comfort spend my latter Days:
My Stomach's weak, I'm not content to eat
Lean powder'd Beef, but must have finer Meat:
I cannot fare like those unletter'd Brutes,
Born to hard Labour and unbutter'd Roots.
Let me enjoy what my Estate affords;
I'll not be starv'd to pile up useless Hoards
For my proud Daughters, and my thankless Son,
To lavish when my fleeting Sands are run.
Let me have well-spread Tables when I dine;
Grutch me no dainty Food, or costly Wine,
Since I have Wealth enough to bear the Charge
Of living more at Ease, and more at large.

Wife.
Prithee, my Dear, consider Times are hard,
Trade much reduc'd, and greater Evils fear'd;
Taxes run high, and daily must encrease,
Whilst War excludes the kind Effects of Peace.
This is no happy Juncture to become
Abroad a Spendthrift, or profuse at Home;
No Season to be liberal or great,
When War devours one third of your Estate,
Whilst the Remainder at the Mercy lies
Of giving Pow'rs too generously wise;
Therefore who would not save whate'er he cou'd,
'Less in an Age so hazardous he shou'd
Be beggar'd by that Cheat, the Publick Good?

Husband.
Thy Av'rice fills thy Soul with sad Despair,
And makes thee dream of Dangers God knows where.
Let not such foolish Fears afflict thy Breast;
We're happy, if we know when we are blest.
Let our wise Senate give whate'er they please,
We still shall find enough to live at Ease.
What tho' the crafty Courtiers wealthy grow,
By Ways and Means which they themselves best know;
E'en let them share the Nation's Golden Fleece,
Foxes are us'd to prey upon the Geese;
Yet tho' the Laws compel us to resign
One third of what we hold in Land or Coin,
Let's be content, not think our selves opprest,
But with an easy Mind enjoy the rest;
For the rich Fool that starves before he needs,
Chuses unforc'd that very Curse he dreads:
As fearful Mariners too often run
Into those Dangers they desire to shun,
And wanting Conduct, are, alas! destroy'd
Upon those Shelves which wiser Heads avoid;
Therefore, my Dear, let us not be so dull,
To want Life's Comforts whilst our Bags are full,
But spend in Plenty what we starve to save,
And merit by our Bounty what we have.

Wife.
Since Nature covets but a small Supply,
The mod'rate Liver does the most enjoy;
For more than human Life or Health require,
Is vain Excess, which only Fools admire:
Gluttons and Drunkards, who confound their Store
In half their Days, to live when aged poor.
Man's Happiness on Earth consists, we see,
In healthful Temp'rance and Frugality.
Those who possess these Vertues, always find
The Sweetness of a calm contented Mind;
Improve their Fortunes, and preserve their Ease,
Which Spendthrifts lavish in their Luxuries,
Who swell to Monsters e'er they see their Prime,
By drinking hard, or eating to a Crime;
Wasting their Wealth, by painful Parents rais'd,
Glory'ng the most, when they are most debas'd;
As if, to conquer others by full Quarts,
Advanc'd their Fame, and shew'd their great Deserts.
Would you be one of these fantastick Apes,
To drown your Substance in the Blood of Grapes;
Or waste your solid Treasure, to delight
The vicious Longings of your Appetite?
Would you turn Sot, God's Blessings thus misuse,
And at your Cost your self and Friends abuse?
If such a Life you'd lead, pray where's the Sense
Of growing wicked at your own Expence?
Or would you feast a Croud of Fools each Day,
That they may laugh, while you the Charge defray;
And your Estate impair, that you may pass,
With Sots and Flatt'rers, for a gen'rous Ass,
Who, at your Table, will your Treats commend,
But when you need 'em, cease to be your Friend?
If these you want, make Haste to be undone,
And order twenty Dishes for your one.

Husband.
Your Brains, my Dear, are full of frantick Dreams;
Is there no Medium 'twixt the two Extreams?
Must I all needful Comforts be deny'd,
Or to profuse Extravagance be ty'd?
Cannot I give my self a grateful Meal,
But I must feast the World with Ortland Teal?
Or grace my Table ev'ry Day I dine,
With a digestive Glass of noble Wine,
But I must turn a thoughtless Sot, a Beast,
And ruin my Estate to treat my Guest?
Sure there are Ways of living free from Want,
Between the Miser and Extravagant!
Sure Men of Wealth may find a happy State,
And neither seem too little, or too great.
I ne'er took Pleasure in a vain Excess,
Nor do I love a Miser's Stinginess:
But since by Heav'n I'm blest with an Estate,
I'll not be us'd at this penurious Rate:
Give me the best of Meats to please my Taste;
Let me have Plenty, I desire no Waste:
A well-spread Table I delight to see,
According to my Wealth and Quality,
That Friend or Neighbour, when they come to dine,
May find no Want of wholsome Food or Wine.

Wife.
But you have sev'ral Daughters still to wed,
Ripe for the Pleasures of the nuptial Bed:
Consider, Dear, their Fortunes must be large;
To match 'em well, will prove no little Charge;
They'll sink your Bags, and weaken your Estate.
Why therefore will you think of living great,
Till you've dispos'd your Daughters to your Mind,
And shewn how far you're willing to be kind?
For Parents are in Duty bound to place
Their Children in a State of Happiness,
That we, to whom they owe their Birth, may be
Blest, when we're old, in their Prosperity.
Is it not better we should sparing live,
That to our Offspring we the more may give,
Than to be lavish of your wealthy Store,
And, to feast others, leave our Children poor?

Husband.
Duty, I own, commands us to extend
Our Love to those who on our Care depend,
And that a Father is by Nature ty'd,
For his dear Childrens Welfare, to provide;
But still no Parent is oblig'd to make
His Life unhappy, for his Offsprings Sake;
And tho he's rich, live sparingly and poor,
That when he's gone, they may enjoy the more:
A due Provision ought to be his Care;
But he's a Fool that starves, to bless his Heir.
Must wealthy Fathers like Curmudgeons live,
That to their Children they the more may give?
Must I repine beneath a Miser's Fate,
To make my Sons and Daughters rich and great?
No, no, my Dear, from this Time you shall see
Such female Doctrine shall not take with me;
I'll not with Legs and Shins of Beef be fed,
That they may feast on Dainties when I'm dead;
Nor in coarse Kersies wrap my wither'd Hide,
That my fair Daughters may in Coaches ride.
Pray let my Table, ev'ry Day I eat,
Be furnish'd with the best of Butchers Meat,
With Fish and Fowl, when I have Friends to dine,
And a full Cistern of salubrious Wine;
Let my fine Linnen on the Board be spread,
And not for Daughters kept till I am dead;
I'll have no Hussif's dirty Flaxen brought,
But ev'ry Day clean Damask, as I ought,
That Friends or Strangers, when they're here, may see
I live to my Estate and Quality.
Your self may be as saving as you please,
But I'll consult my Credit and my Ease;
No more conform to a penurious Life,
To please a whining parsimonious Wife,
Who, were you ne'er so wealthy, still would be
A stingy Muckworm to your self and me;
Drudge on, pile up, live mean, without a Friend,
And curse each useful Penny that you spend.
So slaving Misers, when too rich they're grown,
Hide what they earn, and still for more toil on;
Conceal their Worth, by wearing homely Rags,
And pine their empty Guts, to fill their Bags.

Wife.
You talk, my Dear, as if you meant to waste,
In your old Age, what you have long possest.
Consider, Love, if you resolve to run
This fatal Race, we shall be all undone:
You're frantick sure. Can you, alas! afford
To treat so high, and revel like a Lord?
You got your Wealth by your industrious Wits,
Improv'd the same in Trade by lucky Hits;
But pray consider those good Days are past;
And would you spend it idly now at last?
Shame on the Follies of your aged Head,
From whence was this devouring Maggot bred?
What strange bewitching Fate hangs o'er your Gold,
And makes you now turn Spendthrift when you're old?
What ill-got Sums lie mingl'd with your Hoard,
Curs'd by some Orphan till again restor'd?
Prithee, my Dear, return the Canker Home,
Let no base Pounds the honest Part consume;
For sure some sinful Bags, by Fraud obtain'd,
Giv'n as a Bribe, or by Oppression gain'd,
Corrupt your Cash, and poyson your Estate;
Or, in your latter Years, your addl'd Pate
Would ne'er contrive to lavish your Estate.

Husband.
Since bounteous Fortune has so kindly blest
My careful Toils for forty Years at least,
That, to my Joy, I now abound, when old,
With fruitful Acres, and with Sums of Gold,
Honour'd long since with Knighthood for my Wealth,
Now free from Bus'ness, happy in my Health;
I tell thee, Wife, or Lady, if you please,
No want of Plenty shall obstruct my Ease;
But in my Age I'll generously live,
Yet spend with Prudence, and with Caution give;
Revive my crusty Nerves with Wine that's good,
And add new Springs to my declining Blood;
Make much of Friends, be hospitably free,
And, whilst I live, bestow my Charity.
This in Contempt of Avarice I'll do,
T'oblige my self, my Dear, in spite of you;
And if you frown at Dinner on my Friends,
Or your keen Tongue beyond its Bounds extends,
Then to some distant Tavern will I roam,
And drown in Sack the Plagues I have at Home;
Turn a mere vicious Spendthrift, tho' Im old,
And prove as great a Rake, as you a Scold:
But if I find that you will easy be,
Respectful to my Friends, and kind to me,
Then shall you see, that I will spend to spare,
And tho' I'm gen'rous, it shall be with Care,
That when I've made my Exit, you shall find,
Tho' I liv'd well, I've left enough behind.
Therefore, my Dear, let me, without Debate,
Enjoy the happy Fruits of my Estate;
For who would labour, in his Youth, for Gold,
To pine beneath a Miser's Fate, when old?

Wife.
A Wife's good Counsels are in vain, I know;
For Men, when old, like Trees, more stubborn grow;
As one's too knotty and too stiff to bend,
So t'other proves too resolute to mend;
But since a Woman must be thought too weak
And foolish to controul, advise, or speak,
And Man's too proud to bend, take Care you do not break.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[He that has Wealth to bless his Life]

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.

Husband.

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.

Wife.
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.

Wife.
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;
Who, if he's spurr'd, will run away too fast,
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.

Husband.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[The buxom Lady, bred in Town]

Dialogue XII. Between a depending Courtier, who would have sacrific'd the Chastity of his Wife to a certain Great Man, in hopes of Preferment, and his vertuous Lady, who was avers'd to a Compliance.

Wife.
My Dear, what makes my Lord his Visits pay
So oft? For he was here again to Day,
Teazing my Ears with such respectful Praise,
I know not what he means by what he says:
Sometimes he treats me with a Love Intrigue,
Then gazing on my Face, he flirts his Wig;
Walks too and fro the Room, then down he sits,
Pauses and sighs, as if beside his Wits:
Sometimes he smiles, and compliments me high,
And oft does into frantick Raptures fly;
Then, rising from his Seat, he springs in Haste,
Forces a Kiss, and hugs me round the Waste,
Then down he sets me, rubs against my Knees,
Presses my Breast, and gives my Hand a Squeeze,
Tells me how much my Beauty he admires,
Talks of Love Passions, and of am'rous Fires.
Wishing his own young Lady could but bless
His Bed with half the Charms that I possess.
With such like Flatt'ries does he stuff my Ears,
As if he meant t'affront me with his Jeers;
Nor can I rude or disrespectful be,
Because I'm so beneath his Quality;
Next, 'cause I know that you so much depend
Upon his Honour, as your only Friend;
Therefore what Measures I shall use, pray tell,
For I am apt to fear he means not well.

Husband.
I know he loves you; I have heard him swear,
Of all your Sex, you're most divinely fair;
And that he thinks me happy in a Wife.
Whose Charms are fit to bless a Monarch's Life:
Whene'er he asks me kindly how you do,
His tender Manner does his Passion shew;
And when he walks, and talks to me aside,
He ne'er forgets his Wishes to my Bride;
Makes you the Object of his fond Desires,
And seems to whisper what his Love requires;
For I have often heard him sigh, and cry,
He'd give the World to be as blest as I;
Then vowing much Respect for you and me,
Would swear I should ere long his Friendship see.
In short, he does for you such Love express,
That what he means, you cannot chuse but guess.

Wife.
With how much Patience you conceive his Flame,
And to my glowing Ears convey the same,
As if you thought it, like a shameful Cow'rd,
An Honour to be rivall'd by a Lord?
How could you hear his odious Love exprest,
And keep your Sword from his adult'rous Breast;
Or tamely lissen to a treach'rous Friend,
Who does the Beauty of your Wife commend
In such an odious Manner, as to shew
His Lust for her, and his Contempt of you?
You talk as calmly of his loose Desires,
As if you'd have me grant what he requires;
And that, for Reasons to your self best known,
You'd Pimp for her the Laws have made your own.
Prithee, my Dear, the Mystery disclose,
And let me know what he or you propose?
If to your Lordly Friend you prove so kind,
You ought to first acquaint me with your Mind;
For when a Woman's Honour lies at Stake,
'Tis fit you should to her the Secret break.

Husband.
You know, my Dear, that he's a pow'rful Man,
Great in Estate, and high in the Divan;
Behind the Curtain turns the grand Machine,
Puts others out, and who he pleases in:
Who therefore would not make one Step awry,
To win the Smiles of such a Friend thereby,
Who, by those Favours he would gladly spare,
Can make us much more happy than we are?
Besides, my Dear, you may resign your Charms
With so much Conduct to his longing Arms,
That no discerning Eye can trace your Love,
Or watch the happy Minute you improve;
And whilst our Vices are conceal'd from Fame,
We 'njoy the Pleasure, but escape the Shame.
Who then would such a lucky Hour deny,
And lose the Prospect of such wealthy Joy;
When, by a trifling Sin, to th'World unknown,
With Care repeated, unsuspected done,
We may, perhaps, advance our meaner State,
And rise from narrow Fortunes, to be great?

Wife.
Well said, my patient Spouse, I'm glad to find
You'll grant your Wife such License to be kind:
Since you consent, I should adorn your Brows,
And for your Int'rest, break my nuptial Vows.
I hope you'll give me Leave to please my Mind
With those I like, when I am so inclin'd:
If I for Profit may unfold my Arms,
Sure, for my Pleasure, I may use my Charms;
For she that's wicked to support her Pride,
When Love appears, must yield to be enjoy'd.
But sure, my Dear, you only talk to try
How far vain Hopes would bring me to comply;
And whether I'd be forward to defile
My nuptial Honour, for a Courtier's Smile.
Such awkward Counsels surely must arise,
From some conceal'd Distrusts or Jealousies:
I fancy that you only importune
Your Wife to what you think's already done;
Therefore I beg you to be free and plain,
That I may truly know what 'tis you mean.

Husband.
By all that's sacred, I have no Design,
But what's for both your Benefit and mine:
I know my Lord's devoted to your Charms,
And sighs and pines to hug you in his Arms.
Would you but once with his Desires comply,
His Heart would be enslav'd 'twixt you and I;
Your Beauty might command whate'er you pleas'd,
Was but his Love, by your Indearments, eas'd:
Would you surrender what he wants to take,
I should fare well for my Dorinda's sake;
To high Preferments I should quickly rise,
And Jems would sparkle round your beauteous Eyes;
Yet with due Care you might your Honour keep,
And in his Arms with Reputation sleep;
For I my self can cover the Disgrace,
And give your secret Joys an honest Face;
Guard you from prying Servants, till he's cloy'd,
That what you do may common Fame avoid.
Many by such Compliance rise at Court;
'Tis a sure way to win the nobler sort:
Beauty's Man's only Advocate among
The greater Rank, that rule the humble Throng.
The other Day, a Captain in the Host,
By the same Means, obtain'd a higher Post:
Why therefore will you keep me at a stand,
When your kind Charms may Wealth and Pow'r command?

Wife.

Husband.
Fear not the Pleasures you may thus bestow,
Since none besides our selves the Secret know.
My Lord's a Man of Honour, and disdains
To boast the happy Favours he obtains;
Nor dare I broach the Liberties you take,
'Less my own Tongue my self should odious make:
So that you must be safe in his Embrace,
Unless your Folly blads your own Disgrace.
Who therefore would not value the Esteem
Of him who loves to such a fond Extream,
Since you have my Consent to freely grant
The utmost Joys his eager Soul can want?
And when your Husband's Welfare does depend
Upon your Kindness to his only Friend,
And you have my Command to yield a Part
Of your Delights, to ease another's Heart;
It then becomes your Duty to resign,
And, if a Sin, it is not yours, but mine.
Woman in all Things should her Lord obey;
And if, by my Advice, you go astray,
It is not you that err, but I that lead the Way.

Wife.

Husband.

Wife.

Husband.
May Hell and Fury follow where she goes,
Since her nice Vertue such Resentment shows;
And if I find, that she in spite declares
The Secret I've imparted to her Ears,
(For Wives can seldom from their Sex conceal
What their own Pride excites them to reveal)
Then, in Revenge, I'll say, I only try'd
Her Virtue, and aver, that she comply'd,
And that I turn'd her off, because I found
My jealous Conflicts had sufficient Ground;
Vow that I lov'd, whilst she was kind and good,
And, tho' I think her chaste, I'll swear she's lewd.
What I assert's most likely to prevail,
Whilst few will credit her prepost'rous Tale;
For who can think a Husband such a Brute,
To court his Wife to grant so strange a Suit,
As to become another's Prostitute?

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Tho' good Men scarce believe there's such]

Dialogue XIII. Between a squeamish cotting Mechanick, and his sluttish Wife, in the Kitchen.

Husband.
Is the Fish ready? You're a tedious while;
Take Care the Butter does not turn to Oil:
Lay on more Coals, and hang the Pot down low'r,
Or 'twill not boil with such a Fire this Hour.
Is that, my Dear, the Sause-pan you design
To stew the Shrimps, and melt the Butter in?
Nouns! within side as nasty it appears,
As if't had ne'er been scow'r'd this fifty Years.
Rare Hussifs! how confounded black it looks!
God sends us Meat, the Devil sends us Cooks.

Wife.
Why how now, Cot! Must I be taught by you?
Sure I without you know what I've to do.
Prithee go mind your Shop, attend your Trade,
And leave the Kitchen to your Wife and Maid.
O'erlook your 'Prentices, you Cot, and see
They do their Work, leave Cookery to me.
Is't fit a Man, you contradicting Sot,
Should mind the Kettle, or the Porridge-pot,
And run his Nose in ev'ry dirty Hole,
To see what Platter's clean, what Dish is foul?
Be gone, you prating Ninny, whilst you're well,
Or, faith, I'll pin the Dish-clout to your Tail.

Husband.
I'll not be poyson'd by a sluttish Quane.
Hussy, I say, go scow'r the Sauce-pan clean.
What, tho' your Mistress is a careless Beast,
I love to have my Victuals cleanly drest!
Cot me no Cots, I'll not be bound to eat
Such dirty Sauce to good and wholesome Meat.
I will direct and govern, since I find
You're both to so much Nastiness inclin'd.
I'd have you know, I neither fear or matter
Your threaten'd Dish-Clouts, or your scalding Water.

Wife.
Stand by, you prating Fool, you damn'd Provoker,
Or, by my Soul; I'll burn you with the Poker.
Must I be thus abus'd, as if your Maid,
And call'd a Slut before a saucy Jade?
Gad, speak another, and, by my Troth,
I'll spoil the Fish, and scald you with the Broth.
The Kitchen fire, alas! don't burn to please ye;
The Sauce pan is, forsooth, too foul and greasy.
Minx, touch it not; I say it's clean enough,
Your scow'ring rubs the Tin within side off:
I'll have no melted Butter taste of Brass,
To please the Humour of a squeamish Ass.
If Cot-Comptroller does not like its Looks,
Let him spend Six pence at his nasty Cooks,
Where rotten Mutton, Beef that's Turnip fed,
Lean meazly Pork on London Muck-hills bred,
Will please the Fool much better than the best
Of Meat by his own Wife or Servant drest.
Why don't you thither go before you dine,
Where you may see, perhaps, a noble Loin
Of a Bull-Calf, lie sweating at the Fire,
Beneath fat Pork, nurs'd up in T---d and Mire,
And under that a Chump of Suffolk-Beef,
Thrice roasted for some hungry Clown's relief,
Till black as Soot, that from the Chimney falls,
And hard as Severn-Salmon dry'd in Wales,
All basted with a Flux of mingl'd Fat,
Which greasily distils from this and that?
Such nice tid cleanly Bits would please my Dear;
Prithee go thither, do not plague us here.

Husband.
Hussy, what I direct, you ought to do,
I'm Lord and Master of this House and you.
Do you not know that wise and noble Prince,
King 'Hasuerus, made a Law long since,
That ev'ry Husband should the Ruler be
Of his own Wife, as well as Family?
How dare you then controul my lawful Sway,
When Scripture tells you Woman should obey?
Therefore, I say, I'll have my Fish well drest,
After such manner as shall please me best,
Or, Hussy, by this Ladle, if I han't,
I'll make you shew good Reason why I shan't.
I'll have more Coals upon the Fire, I tell ye,
And have the Sauce-pan clean'd, aye marry will I,
Or I'll acquaint your Teacher, Mr. Blunder,
That all the Art of Man can't keep you under.

Wife.
Here, Hussy, fetch some Coals, 'tis long of you
That we have ev'ry Day all this to do.
Pray clean the Sauce-pan, you forgetful Trull,
I must confess it looks a little dull.
You shall not say I love this jarring Life,
You shall have no Complaints against your Wife.
But prithee, Husband, leave us, and be easy,
Ne'er doubt but I will cook your Fish to please ye.
When Men o'erlook us, we proceed in fear,
And ne'er can do so well when they are near;
Therefore I hope, my Dear, you will not mind
A Woman's Passion, Words you know are Wind.
I would not for the World have Mr. Blunder
Know that we jar, the good old Man would wonder
That you and I, who've been so long his Hearers,
Should now want Grace, and fall into such Errors.

Husband.
Since you repent your Failings, I'll be gone,
But prithee let the Fish be nicely done.
I buy the best, and whether roast or boil'd,
You know I hate to have my victuals spoil'd.

Wife.
My Dear, I'll take such Care, that you shall find
It shall be rightly order'd to your Mind.
I'm glad he's gone. Pox take him for a Cot,
What Wife would humour such a snarling Sot?
Here, Kather'n, take my Keys, slip gently by
The Fox, and fetch a Dram for thee and I:
Lay down the Sauce-pan; poh! it's clean enough
For such an old, ill natur'd, stingy Cuff.
Prithee ne'er value what thy Master says,
You should not mind his cross-grain'd, foolish ways;
But when I bid you, Hussy, you must run;
Now his Back's turn'd, the Kitchen is our own.
Bless me! how eas'ly can a Woman blind
And cheat a Husband, if he proves unkind:
He thinks, poor Cuckold, that he bears the Rule,
When Heaven knows I do but gull the Fool.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[A prudent Man should never pry]

Dialogue XIV. Between a pious Clergy-man, and his vertuous Lady.

Wife.
Sure, if your sinful Congregation thought
The Doctrine true, which you so long have taught,
They would forsake those Evils they pursue,
And be admonish'd to reform by you!
But still you preach, and pray for them in vain;
For still their wicked Habits they retain.
What means this strange Defect in human Race,
So deaf to Reason, and averse to Grace,
That tho' you teach their Duty ev'ry Day,
Yet all those Heav'nly Laws they disobey,
And shun, without Remorse, the righteous Way?

Husband.

Wife.
Could they believe a God, and dread his Hate,
Or truly think there was a future State,
From Satan's Bondage sure 'twould set 'em free,
And wake them from their dull Stupidity;
For he that sees beyond the Vale of Death,
And hopes hereafter for eternal Breath,
Who in his Conscience knows he must surmount
The silent Grave, to give a just Account
Of Ills he us'd no Caution to avoid,
And each past Moment that he misemploy'd,
That his sad Soul on that tremendous Day,
Must its last Doom, whate'er it is, obey,
To be for ever blest above the Skies,
Or curs'd to everlasting Miseries,
There amongst Imps and Devils to remain,
Where all Redemption must be hop'd in vain.
Sure Thoughts like these would make a Sinner sad,
Comfort the Just, and terrify the Bad;
Give the most harden'd Conscience such a shock,
That the lost Sheep would seek the holy Flock;
Expel the Poyson in his lustful Veins;
And closely hug those Vertues he disdains,
Thro' Hopes of Heav'nly Joys, or Fear of Hellish Pains.

Husband.
The Wise reclaim as soon as well reprov'd,
But stupid Folly's hard to be remov'd;
Right thinking will reform the sinful Mind,
But sordid Ignorance is deaf and blind.
The Obstinate reject all good Advice,
What injures them the most, they're apt to prize,
And, what they ought to value, they despise.
The Fool is always backward to believe,
And hates to credit what he can't conceive;
Will pin no Faith upon his painful Guide,
But, what he does not understand, deride.
Futurity to some does only seem
A Poet's Fiction, or a Prophet's Dream;
And Heav'n and Hell, by Scripture made so plain,
Thought the wild Fancies of some teeming Brain.
Therefore lewd Atheists, and contending Fools,
Who war with all good Principles and Rules,
And would be thought too cunning to rely
Upon their holy Guide's Integrity,
Will their own wilful Errors still pursue,
In spite of all the Church can say or do.
Th'unletter'd Dunce no Myst'ry can conceive;
The learned Fool no Scripture will believe:
The doubtful Sceptist will by Reason try
Those Truths beyond the Reach of Reason's Eye:
Th'inebrious Sinner's always drown'd in drink,
And gives himself no leave to hear or think:
Th'am'rous Heathen comes to Church to view
His female Goddess dizen'd in her Pew;
Worships his Madam in her flaming Pride,
And neither minds his Duty or his Guide;
Implores no other Blessings but her Charms,
And thinks there is no Heav'n, but in her Arms.
The neighb'ring Clowns, from mending of a Gap,
Steal into Church to only take a Nap;
And mind no more the Doctrine of the Day,
Than when they're swearing on a Mow of Hay.
The Lasses come to Church to chiefly shew
Whose Pinner sits the best, whose Gown is new;
And think of nothing all the Time they're there,
But those that kiss'd 'em last at Wake or Fair.
And when his Worship's in the Godly Vein
To come to Church, which is but now and then,
He falls asleep ere we have read the Lessons,
And dreams, perhaps, of the next Quarter Sessions;
Creeps close, unseen, i'th' Corner of his Pew,
Ne'er minds the Priest, but nods the Sermon thro'.
What can we do, or how in order keep
A drowsy Flock of such unthinking Sheep?
How should a Guide their Souls to Heaven steer?
Or how instruct, if they refuse to hear?

Wife.
Since they the Doctrine of their Guide reject,
Their Faults are owing to their own Neglect:
You're just and painful in your past'ral Care,
And cannot in their sinful Suff'rings share;
At the last Judgment you'll be guiltless found;
Tho the Flock's scabby, yet the Shepherd's sound.
Therefore, my Dear, do you incur no Blame,
And I'll still take Example by the same,
That when the Trumpet shall our Ashes raise,
We both in Heav'n may sing eternal Praise.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Our holy Guides may preach and pray]

Dialogue XV. Between a tender and religious Husband, and his barren melancholy Lady.

Husband.
Why so reserv'd and indispos'd, my Dear?
What makes my Love so a la mort appear?
As if some hidden Grief, or anxious Thought,
A sudden change had in thy Temper wrought.
How kind and pleasant did you use to prove,
All over Freedom, Gayety, and Love,
Chearful in Humour, spritely in your Mein,
All Charms without, and peaceable within?
But now, alas! each pensive Look declares
You're sunk beneath a Load of teazing Cares;
And that your tender Breast, which us'd to be
From worldly Sorrows and Afflictions free,
Has lost, on some Account, its sweet Repose,
And feels those Pains you care not to disclose.
Prithee, my Dear, the hidden Cause impart,
That clouds your Charms, and so torments your Heart.
A Wife should not ingross, but ease her Care,
And let her Husband bear an equal Share;
For both are bound, when either are opprest,
To be a Comfort to each other's Breast.

Wife.
Prithee, my Dear, be easy, mind not me;
Women sometimes will out of Humour be:
Our Discontents in foolish Trifles lie;
We're vex'd or pleas'd, and know no Reason why:
Small Causes in our weak imprudent Sex,
Will oft produce extravagant Effects:
We're troubl'd with the Vapours, and from thence
Our melancholy Whims sometimes commence:
Our female Cares, like Castles in the Air,
Are built so thin, they'll no Enquiry bear:
Small Grief in us, a high Concern appears;
What Men despise, will cause a Woman's Tears.
Therefore I hope you are too wise to mind
The unexpected Changes that you find
In wav'ring Woman, fickle as the Wind.

Husband.

Wife.
In you I'm blest, and cannot but approve
Your prudent Conduct, and your faithful Love:
Had I a Myriad of delightful Charms,
Or could I boast a Heaven in my Arms,
All I could do to bless your gen'rous Mind,
Would be too little for a Man so kind.
Therefore, my Dear, in you I happy am,
Beyond the Merits of so coarse a Dame;
And should be base to murmur, or accuse
So just a Man, who so much Kindness shews,
That were I wealthy as the Mines of Spain,
And unconfin'd, I'd chuse you o'er again;
Yet there is something does my Ease destroy,
And makes me wretched in the midst of Joy;
Does all my Comforts into Sadness turn,
And in the height of Pleasure, bids me mourn.

Husband.
What secret Causes can a Woman find,
If blest in Marriage, to afflict her Mind?
So long as she approves the Choice she's made,
What frightful Notions can disturb her Head,
Or plague her Breast, especially when free
From Sickness, and secure from Poverty?
'Tis strange to me. But prithee, Dear, explain
This Riddle hatch'd in thy uneasy Brain,
That I may use such Measures as are best
To drive these airy Phantoms from your Breast.

Wife.
Tho' at my Sorrows you are thus amaz'd,
My Dear, I would not have you think I'm craz'd;
Since Nature has abridg'd my female Pow'r,
'Tis for your sake that I my self abhor:
For Man in Wedlock join'd, delights to see
His Image in a lively Progeny,
That as they flourish, and himself grows old,
He may, in them, his Infant-State behold:
Nor can a Husband truly love a Wife,
That adds not these sweet Blessings to his Life;
For Wedlock's but a License to enjoy,
'Tis Children that confirms the sacred Tie:
And where those Blessings are with-held, I fear
A Wife must lose th'Affections of her Dear.
This is the only Cause that makes me mourn,
And look upon my self with Shame and Scorn.

Husband.
Teaze not thy self with such unhappy Thoughts,
The Want of Issue's neither of our Fau'ts;
They are the Gift of Heaven, and bestow'd,
Not when we please, but when the Lord thinks good.
Should I your kind Abilities distrust,
I should be sinful, cruel, and unjust:
If Nature is to blame between us two,
I might as well condemn my self as you.
Should I on this Account less loving be,
You've equal Cause to look with Scorn on me;
For since the Means do both our Aid require,
Who knows which wants the procreative Fire?
But still the Fault does not on Nature fall,
For there's a Power above that governs all;
Who, by his secret Will, directs our Fate,
And knows what's best for Man in ev'ry State.
Therefore let no such Thoughts disturb your Ease;
For 'tis a Sin to pine at Heav'n's Decrees.

Wife.
If Children that confirm our nuptial Love,
Are allow'd Blessings given from above,
Sure we have greatly sinn'd, that we're deny'd
Those Comforts by the meanest Slaves enjoy'd.
What have we done, that we alone should want
What Heav'n to many does so freely grant?
If the Celestial Pow'rs have less Regard
For us, than others, still our Fate's more hard.
The Arguments you urge, improve my Care,
And only leave me in a worse Despair.

Husband.

Wife.
Since you can love me, tho' I am not blest
With your dear Image at my tender Breast,
My future Grief I'll labour to prevent,
And strive, my Dear, to be, like you, content;
For 'twas my Fear your Kindness should decline,
Thro' Want of Sons, that caus'd me to repine;
But since you're easy, tho' my Fate be hard,
Your pious Counsels, and your kind Regard
For my afflicted Mind, my Cares remove,
And make me happy in your gen'rous Love.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[If a young Wife should want an Heir]

Dialogue XVI. Between a fond Gentleman, and his coaxing Lady.

Husband.
That Look, my Dear, was very kind, I vow:
What charming Smiles are seated on your Brow?
How fond and gay you of a sudden prove,
All over Beauty, Pleasantry, and Love?
Did you but know how this engaging Air
Becomes a Woman so divinely fair,
Sure you would never, in your Dumps, disguise,
With sullen Pouts, the Lustre of those Eyes;
But let your Spouse be always happy in
The native Sweetness of your lovely Mein.

Wife.
Women at all Times can't alike be free,
The best will now and then ill-humour'd be.
I hope I'm courteous and obliging now;
I'd always please you, if I knew but how.
Did I not hug you in my Arms last Night,
And summon all my Charms to your Delight?
Did I not vow I'd be for ever true,
Call you my Dear, as a good Wife should do?
Be you respectful, you shall ever find
That I'll be humble, diligent, and kind:
But if you're slighting, peevish, and perverse,
In short, 'twill make me prove as bad, or worse.

Husband.
I know, Belinda, that your Frowns are oft
The politick Effects of Female Craft.
You can seem angry, tho' your Mind's sedate,
And hide your Love with a dissembl'd Hate;
Be peevish, slighting, petulent, and soure,
On purpose to exert your Beauty's Pow'r;
That when your Frowns are vanish'd from your Brows,
Your Smiles may prove more welcome to your Spouse.
So misty Vapours from the Earth arise,
And for a Time hide Phœbus from our Eyes;
But when dispers'd the God the brighter seems,
And we with greater Joy behold his Beams.

Wife.
Frowns are Advantages to female Smiles;
A Woman's Poutings, are her Beauty's Foils.
A Teaze in Season, but ferments the Blood,
Revives the Spirits, does a Husband good.
Lovers should jar, sick Fancy to restore,
And hug the closer when the Quarrel's o'er.
Were't not for clashing, Love would soon decay;
And Time with less Delight would slide away.
For Marriage-Feuds, that in the Day arise,
Are recompens'd at Night with double Joys;
Such that are hid from that insipid Life,
Where dull Indiff'rence reigns 'twixt Man and Wife:
For Love, like Musick, cannot perfect be,
'Less Discord's rightly mix'd with Harmony.

Husband.
'Tis true, some Jars in Wedlock, that arise,
Whet but our Appetites to nuptial Joys;
Yet there are some Disputes, that disunite
Our Hearts, and disappoint us of delight;
Such that do oft turn mutual Love to Hate,
And in revengeful Malice terminate:
For Love, that with the greatest ardour burns,
If ill rewarded, to Aversion turns.
As the best Wines, if not preserv'd with Care,
Will soon become the sharpest Vinegar.

Wife.
But what must be the Cause of such Disputes,
That can change Lovers to such angry Brutes,
And make them so revengeful and absurd,
As strive to ruin what they once ador'd?
Were all the vexing Discords to arise,
That Wedlock could produce, or Fate devise,
No Malice my Affections should suppress,
Or make me love my Dear one jot the less.

Husband.

Wife.
Hardships, like these, I own might prove too great
For feeble Woman to sustain their Weight.
Had any Mistress in your Heart a share,
I must confess I no Revenge should spare.
The patient'st Wife alive, could never, sure,
A Rival in her nuptial Bed endure:
Such humble Acquiescence would proclaim
A Woman's Folly, to her publick Shame,
And shew the Wretch ridiculously tame:
Or should you strike me in an angry Mood,
You may be sure I'd poys'n you, if I cou'd:
But Men, like you, of Breeding and of Birth,
Can ne'er so far degen'rate from your Worth.
Blows only pass 'twixt Porters and their Trulls,
Where brutish Rage, instead of Reason, rules,
Those of our Rank, altho' the Cause be great,
Should scorn to jar at such a scoundrel Rate.
All but these grand Abuses, as I live,
I could forget, nay, heartily forgive;
But Blows and Rivals are Affronts so evil,
They'd make an Angel of a Wife turn Devil.

Husband.
My dear Belinda, I am past my Hour;
I should have been at Charing-Cross by Four:
Your pleasant Talk has spurr'd on Time too fast;
Farewel, my Dear; excuse me, I'm in Haste.

Wife.
But stay, my Dear, I have a small Request;
I'm sure you need not be in so much Haste.
I promis'd, Child, at six a-Clock, to go
To Madam Sharp's, to meet my Lady Loo;
My Lady Quickdeal, and Sir John's new Bride;
My Lady Patch, and sev'ral more beside.
We've set this very Night apart for Play;
I shall have mighty Luck, I dare to say,
Because we've been so loving all this Day.
But, by this Kiss, my Dear, you must supply me
With twenty Guineas; prithee don't deny me.
A Purse of Gold, at such a Time, you know
Looks well, and makes a creditable Show.

Husband.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[As Wives have sundry Ways to teaze]

Dialogue XVII. Between a prudent Gentleman, and his obliging Lady, about her keeping Company with a certain Gentlewoman of a slender Reputation.

Husband.
You're welcome Home my Dear; you're come at last.
I thought you long; 'tis ten a Clock, or past.
What made you, Child, continue out so late?
You said, at farthest, you'd return by eight.
A modest Wife should have Respect to Time;
To break your Word, is a provoking Crime.
Where have you been, my Dear, that you could be
So thoughtless of your self, as well as me?

Wife.
Pray, Dear, excuse me: 'Tis a Fault, I own
I did not think you'd be at Home so soon.
You know my Bus'ness chiefly was to pay
A formal Visit to my Lady Gay;
But coming early thence, before 'twas dark,
I stept to Madam Daphne's near the Park,
Where she and I sat chatting, till I vow
The Ev'ning slipt away I know not how;
Tho' when it prov'd so very late, I'll swear
It vex'd me, that so long I'd tarry'd there,
'Less you should think I'd been the Lord knows where.

Husband.
Why will you keep her Company? You know
I've begg'd that you no more would thither go.
Her Air's too wanton, and her Tongue to free;
I fear she breaks the Rules of Modesty.
Her Looks betray the Looseness of her Mind,
And her Mein shews she is to Ill inclin'd.
Besides, her Reputation is not clear;
I care not to repeat the Things I hear.
She's censur'd as a Woman of Intrigue,
And that she's with a Captain now in League:
Nay, worse; for some don't scruple to report
She once was pregnant by a Lord at Court;
And that his Father, to reward her Shame,
Allows her now a Stipend for the same,
I've hinted this before, and must you still
Make her your Crony, 'gainst your Husband's Will?
Indeed, my Dear, I'm much concern'd to find
You should be so imprudent and unkind.

Wife.
Fame oft reports what none can make appear,
And Envy talks what Justice hates to hear.
The World's ill-natur'd, and delights to spread
What should not be too eas'ly credited.
Censure's an Evil very few avoid,
And Innocence thereby is much annoy'd.
The Good must suffer, whilst the Bad go free;
The last are safe in their Majority;
Whilst Vertue oft is scandaliz'd aloud,
To make her level with the guilty Crowd.
The modest Dame, who little says, is thought
The silent Sow, that drinks up all the Draught.
The merry Gossiip is too bold and free,
Her wanton Carriage shews her Levity.
The pious Maid, tho' righteous as a Saint,
Does only for a Spark the Church frequent.
The devout Wife must horn her Husband's Brows,
And only goes to Pray'rs to cheat her Spouse.
In short, no Woman, be she ne'er so just,
Can live exempt from wicked Man's Distrust;
For she that scorns to yield to his Delight,
The envious Letcher injures out of spite;
Lessens and damns those Charms beyond his reach,
As Sportsmen curse the Hare they cannot catch.
I hope, my Dear, you have not been deny'd,
And therefore wrong what you in vain have try'd;
For I could ne'er in Daphne's Looks or Mein
Discover what you've heard, or what you've seen.
Therefore, my Dearest, tho', for ought I know,
She may be bad, I scarce can think her so.
Why therefore should you judge so hardly by her,
Since common Fame is but a common Lyar.

Husband.
But if she's thought to be a wanton Dame,
And spiteful Tongues have fix'd the evil Shame,
What tho' the Fact is not believ'd by you,
If once the World affirms it, then it's true;
Or tho' its false, the Calumny sticks fast,
And will the nicest Reputation blast?
The heav'nly Truths we must allow divine,
Those above Falshood will for ever shine;
But worldly Truths are what the World receive,
And Falshood only what we misbelieve;
Therefore if common Fame reports her lewd,
It is in vain for you to say she's good.
If you pretend t'extenuate her Disgrace,
Your self will only be believ'd as base:
She, for your Friendship, will no better fare,
But you, in her defence, will surely share
The worst Reproaches that her Name does bear.
Why then, my Dear, will you so foolish prove,
T'incur those Scandals which you can't remove.
Consider, female Reputation's nice,
The only Gem a Woman ought to prize.
It's hard to raise, but easy to exhaust,
And ne'er can be regain'd, when once it's lost.
No matter, whether blemish'd, right or wrong,
By her own Actions, or a spiteful Tongue,
If busy Fame has spread the ill Report,
She'll still be number'd with the looser Sort.
Therefore, my Dear, I beg you to forbear
Her Conversation, 'less in Time you share
Her publick Fame, and odious Character.

Wife.
I own I am not willing to be thought
A wanton Wretch, when guiltless of a Fau't;
Tho' I believe she's injur'd and abus'd,
And knows no Ills of which she stands accus'd;
Yet, since you tell me such Reports are spread,
And by so many talk'd and credited,
Without my Knowledge, there may be some Fire,
From whence such Smother may at first aspire.
Therefore, my Dear, your kind Advice I'll take,
And from this Hour her Company forsake.
I meant no Harm, nor shall you find I'll do
The least Offence that shall displeasure you;
For I have Sense to know my sacred Trust,
And shall obey in all Things that are just;
For stubborn Wives, who foolishly pursue
Those headstrong Humours which too oft they shew,
Make themselves wretched, and their Husband's too.

Husband.
Your kind Compliance with my small Request,
Assures me in a Wife I'm highly blest;
And, to my Satisfaction, serves to prove
At once your Duty, Innocence, and Love.
I must confess I was disturb'd to see
My Dear so fond of such loose Company;
But this Obedience has oblig'd me more
Than your Misconduct disoblig'd before;
And since I've so prevail'd, that you intend
No future Visits to so ill a Friend,
With your Desires I'll evermore comply,
And nothing that a Wife can ask, deny;
For she that will obey, deserves to find
The Man she loves, just, generous, and kind.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

Dialogue XVIII. Between a teazing Husband, and his vexatious tipling Wife.

Husband.
How do'st thou do, my Dear? You look as pale,
As if you fancy'd that you was not well.
I fear the Dram-Cup has neglected stood,
And want of Anniseed has chill'd your Blood.
Prithee, my Dear, revive your female Heart:
If your Stock's out, here's Money, fetch a Quart.
I know thy Veins, according to thy Use,
Must be well warm'd with some infernal Juice,
Or else some Belly-Pain, or Windy Stitch,
Will make thee look as hagged as a Witch.

Wife.

Husband.
I must confess, I never knew it fail;
If ne'er so ill, two Pen'worth makes thee well;
Yet, without Banter, I may justly say
Thou'rt sick, my Dear, at least nine times a day;
Therefore thy Cordial gives but short Relief,
And want of it, I fear, 's thy only Grief.
Here, Maid, go fetch the Bottle to your Dame;
Prithee, my Dear, administer a Dram.
I dare engage one Dose will have the Pow'r
To cure your Malady for half an Hour;
And still, my Love, as often as you think
Your Pain's returning, you as oft should drink.
Adsheart! the Bottle's out.—I guess'd the Cause
That does your Mind so greatly indispose.
I think 'twas fetch'd but Yesterday at Noon;
Nouns! who'd have thought it should be gone so soon?

Wife.
Pray don't you think I drink a Quart a Day;
I spilt a little, some I gave away:
I had a Visiter or two, that came
Last Night, and them I welcom'd with a Dram;
Or else, I'd have you know, it had not half
Been gone in such a Time, for all you laugh;
Tho' I can take a Spoonful now and then;
I would not have you think we drink like Men.
I don't frequent the Ale-house like a Sot,
And there sit guzzling down Pot after Pot,
Till fuller than you're able to contain,
Then in some Corner out 'tis sp---d again,
You'd need upbraid your Wife, because you know
She takes a Dram of Anniseed, or so;
When 'tis, God help me, only to revive
My Spirits, and to keep my self alive!
Were I a drunken Beast, like Gammar Bluff,
Who never knows when she has drank enough;
Or did I up and down with Gossips go
To ev'ry neighbouring Ale-house in the Row,
There score up Dribblets in my Husband's Name,
And leave 'em long unpaid, to both our Shame;
Then I should own you would have Cause to make
Your self uneasy at the Course I take.
But I, alas! who take a Dram by stealth,
Not for the Sake o'th' Liquor, but my Health,
Must be worse us'd, more ridicul'd than those
Who never have the Bottle from their Nose!
But 'tis, alas! the Fortune of our Sex,
Those are most fondl'd, who the most can vex.

Husband.
You are a sober Piece, I needs must say,
To drink a Quart of Spirits in a Day,
And then pretend you gave 'em half away.
Stop your own Mouth, and pray forget to rail
At those good Wives that are content with Ale:
You, like a female Sot, in private tipple
Your Drams behind the Backs of other People,
And in your Closet prove a greater Beast,
Than the worst Gossip at a publick Feast.
Your Mouth, by drinking at this odious Rate,
Out stinks a Brandy-Shop at Billinsgate.
Your nauseous Breath, which does my Nose surprize,
Smells like a Fog that does from Dung-hill rise.
The very Gown and Petticoats you wear,
The odious Fumes of Aqua Vitæ bear,
As if, when drunk, they'd been perfum'd and stain'd
With your damn'd Spirits at the second Hand.
For Shame, you Poll-Cat, quit your Stygian Juice,
And be no more so shamefully profuse
With your confounded Anniseeds, that stink
Much worse than Bog-house, Common-shore, or Sink,
Before you take the Freedom to upbraid
Others, whose Vices are not half so bad;
But 'tis, alas! each wretched Woman's Curse,
To rail at common Faults, yet practise worse.

Wife.
Use me not thus, you contradicting Fool;
I'll drink the more, the more you ridicule.
'Twas your Unkindness that at first disturb'd
My Mind, for I've been always snubb'd and curb'd.
Your ill Conditions made me seek Relief,
To raise my Spirits, when depress'd with Grief:
And can you now, that caus'd me first to drink,
Upbraid me? Is it gen'rous, do you think?
For Shame, you sordid Wretch, forbear your Teaze,
Reflect not thus, to interrupt my Ease.
Women, when indispos'd, may, now and then,
Require a Dram, I hope, as well as Men:
Why therefore should it be a Crime in Wives
To drown their Cares, and comfort up their Lives
As well as you, who ev'ry Day can spend
Whate'er you please with this and t'other Friend;
Feast your ill-favour'd Guts with Wine abroad,
And sotting sit till you have got your Load;
Then, like a Beast, come stagg'ring to your Wife,
And with your drunken Whims perplex her Life?
Should I do so, you'd then have Cause enough
To plague my Ears with such severe Reproof:
But I, forsooth, must be afraid to take
A Dram, altho' so faint I scarce can speak;
For if I do, I must be deem'd a Sot,
Flouted, abus'd, and call'd I know not what;
When all Men may remember, if they please,
Women are subject to Infirmities.
Physicians tell ye we are cold by Nature,
Yet, I believe, you'd have me drink cold Water.
But, faith, I'll see you hang'd, ere I'll comply
To chill my Guts, I know no Reason why;
Since you think much of now and then a Dram,
I'll not be such a Fool as now I am:
No more by either Jeers or Threats be aw'd,
But feast at Home, as well as you Abroad.

Husband.

Wife.
I know you want to see that joyful Day,
But I may send you first to clear the Way.
Come, Nancy, now your Master's gone, be free,
Ne'er mind that he and I thus disagree.
Come, come, here take a Dram, you silly Jade;
L---d, how you drink, as if a bashful Maid.
Husbands will do whate'er they please, we see;
In spite of all their prating, so will we.
Why should our Spouses rule the World in State,
And awe their fearful Wives to this or that,
Since Man, at best, is but a Woman's Brat,

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

Dialogue XIX. Between an honest-blunt Gentleman, and his fantastical Lady, who, between forty and fifty, had made her a colour'd Furbelo'd-Scarf.

Husband.
Wounds, Wife, what a strange Figure do you make?
Sure thou hast got a Rainbow on thy Back!
What Herald's Mantle do my Eyes behold?
You quite forget, my Dear, you're growing old.
Sure mortal Man, till this Time, never fix'd
His Eyes on Youth and Age so odly mix'd.
I'll swear thy Dress would human Sight confound;
Thou shin'st like any Dyer's Tenter-Ground,
Where scarlet, purple, red, blue, yellow, green,
Are at one transient view confus'dly seen.
You're very fine, I vow, and much more gay
Than fifty speckl'd Butterflies in May.
Had it not been for thy old Face and Mein,
I'd thought thee some young taudry Fairy Queen;
Or else a pert, unthinking, little Fool
In her Ball-Dress, broke loose from Dancing-School.
Prithee, my Dear, what airy, wanton Thought
Has made thee guilty of this foolish Fault?

Wife.
What makes thee wonder at me so, my Dear,
'Tis the same Mode that other Women wear?
Look round you when at Church, and you may see
A thousand Wives more taudry dress'd than me;
But my Apparel ne'er can please your Eye;
You're always finding Fault with what I buy.
Therefore I am but foolish, I confess,
To vex at your disliking of my Dress:
I verily believe you'd have me go
In high-crown'd Hat and Coif, like Gammar Crow.
I'm sure Miss Titup, when she hither came,
Had a new Scarf just furbelo'd the same;
Therefore you might have seen, as she was drest,
What Fashion 'tis that most is in request.

Husband.
Why, you old Fool, would you Example take
By a young, childish, giddy, wanton Crack,
Scarce in her Teens, whose Waste is but a Span,
That ne'er knew how to quench the Rage of Man?
Such callow Girls may be allow'd to wear
Fangles, in hopes to tempt some foolish Heir;
In Peacock's Feathers they may cloath their Tails,
For Dress, as much as Beauty oft prevails:
But for a Wife in Party-colour'd Hairs,
Older than Paul's by almost thirty Years;
A wither'd Matron past the Joys of Love,
Who may, within a Year, a Grannum prove;
To wrap old Stubble in so lewd a Dress,
Makes thee look wanton, tho' thou'rt past Embrace;
And lets the World, by thy Apparel, see,
That thy Desire survives Capacity;
For a stale Wife that has out liv'd her Charms,
Is but mere Lumber in a Husband's Arms.
What then, by such vain Dresses, can you mean,
Except to shew you'd fain be young again?
Or that you hop'd to tempt some Fool to own
You still have Charms, when all Men see you've none?

Wife.
All this, my Dear, is but your usual Way
To me, I know you care not what you say:
But why reflect upon my Age? 'Tis true,
I'm past my Prime, but not so old as you;
And still have Youth enough, whene'er you try,
To hold you tack, tho' not to please your Eye;
Therefore, my Dear, I study to improve
My Charms, by Dresses, to revive your Love;
For as in Beauty I decline, I find
Your Words less am'rous, and your Deeds less kind.
Why then do you condemn me for my Pride,
And angry seem that I my Wrinkles hide,
Since these Temptations, round my Neck, you see,
Are worn to make you young, as well as me?

Husband.
Well said, my Dear, your Wheedle makes me laugh,
But I'm too old a Bird to stoop to Chaff.
Few Wives dress airy to delight their Spouse,
Rather to tempt some Fool to horn his Brows.
No Taylor's Charms a Husband can excite,
Stript of your Plumes he views you ev'ry Night.
He hugs you as Dame Nature let you pass,
Without the Arts you study by your Glass;
Therefore no Silks can cheat his skilful Eyes;
He knows fine Feathers are but mere Disguise;
And tho' his Owl a Peacock's Tail should wear,
He would not think his Bird a Jot more fair.
No, no, rich Laces out of Flanders brought,
Admir'd so highly, and so dearly bought;
Your Silks and Sattins to oblige your Pride,
So finely wrought, of Rainbow-Colours dy'd;
Your Jewels, Rings, your Patches, and your Paints;
And Juts and Congees a-la-mode of France;
Your soothing Carriage, your engaging Airs;
Your killing Glances, and your am'rous Snares,
Are seldom us'd in order to renew
Old fading Love betwixt your Spouse and you;
But that Abroad you may the better pass
For a gay Dame with some admiring Ass;
Who, thus deceiv'd, may wish you in his Arms,
And doat, Fool like, upon your borrow'd Charms.

Wife.
You're of a strange odd Humour, I protest;
I hope, my Dear, you only talk in Jest.
Why should you treat me with such light Regard?
I blush to hear you Censure me so hard.
You say I'm old, how then can you believe
I'm fond to tempt, or willing to deceive?
Or if I was, who'd think it worth their Time
To vow Respect to Woman past her Prime.
I only, for your Credit, love to shew
My outward Pride, as other Ladies do:
I value no kind flattering Address,
Seek no Man's Praise, his Admiration less.
I thank my Stars, since I have steer'd my Youth
Within the Bounds of Vertue, and of Truth,
I shall not at these riper Years be free
To stain my Honour with the greatest He:
Therefore I hope you harbour no such Thought,
I dress but as your Wife or Lady ought;
But if you think that I too gay appear,
Or that you grutch the costly Robes I wear,
I'll lay them by, since they your Sight offend,
And be content with such you'll recommend.

Husband.
Wives, who for twenty Years have Mothers been,
Should scorn in such gay Frip'ries to be seen.
The Woman shews most Prudence, that appears
In grave Apparel, suited to her Years;
For she that hides her Age with artful Pains,
But forfeits that Respect she thinks she gains.
So an old Abby's venerable Walls,
Adorn'd with new Imbellishments, like Paul's,
Would lose its ancient Reverence and State,
When patch'd with Ornaments of modern Date.
Yet, since your Pride has tempted you to buy
Such painted Wings, more fit for Butterfly,
Pray wear them till their gaudy Lustre fades,
Admir'd by foolish Beaus, and taudry Jades;
But pray, when these by Age are rent and torn,
And to a scandalous Condition worn,
Let me no more such wanton Garments see,
But recollect your Age, and dress like me;
Wear good, but grave Apparel, pray herea'ter,
And dress not to provoke my Neighbours Laughter,
But let them know the Mother from the Daughter.

Wife.
'Tis a hard Fate on Woman to be old,
But worse to be upbraided and controul'd.
Age steals too soon into a female Face;
But why must she proclaim it in her Dress?
However, since I find it is your Will,
I'll change my Garb, and your Desires fulfil;
For tho' such Dictates, that abridge a Wife
Of Dress, are Hardships to a Woman's Life,
Yet nothing is so bad as nuptial Strife.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Tho' Wives by Men ought not to be]

Dialogue XX. Between a City-Termagant, and her Mechanick Spouse.

Wife.
What ails the angry Sot? Poor jealous Fool;
Yes, I'll obey, when you have Pow'r to rule.
Marry come up, indeed; what's that to you,
Where I have been intriguing, or with who?
What, can't a Wife her Recreation take,
But you must all this noisy Bustle make?
Must I be fearful on a Summer's Day,
To take a Walk, or see a harmless Play,
Because, forsooth, I've such a jealous Spouse,
That thinks each Man I speak to, horns his Brows?

Husband.
Hussy, I say, you are a wanton Slut,
To steal from Home, when I my self am out.
'Tis to my Shame, you Minx, that you're so free
To gad Abroad with any Man but me.
What, tho' he be your Cousin, 'tis a Crime.
I've heard strange Things of Cousins in my Time:
Not but I scorn to have a jealous Pate;
Yet I say Cousins should not be so great:
Therefore pray keep within your own House-door,
And Cousin me no Cousins any more.

Wife.

Husband.
Why, how now, Hussy, you notorious Punk!
Who is't you talk to? I believe you're drunk.
What do you make of me, you prating Blowze?
A'n't I your Lord and Master, and your Spouse?
And ought not I, you saucy Minx, to know
Your Bus'ness out, and whither 'tis you go?

Wife.
High Time indeed, you should be so obey'd;
D'ye take me for your Slave, or Servant Maid?
Had you two thousand Pounds upon the Nail,
To be my Turnkey, and your House my Jayl?
Had I such Breeding on my Youth bestow'd,
To be mew'd up, and fetter'd from Abroad?
Must I, behind your Compter, spend my Life,
That Passengers may view your handsome Wife?
There, like a Fool, sit playing with my Thumbs,
To learn the Price of Sugars, and of Plumbs.
Not I indeed; I'll not be so subdu'd,
But take my Pleasure, as a Woman shou'd:
Dress, visit, gossip, gad where e'er I please;
And if you thwart me, study how to teaze.
I never, wrong'd you, I can justly say,
But if you plague me thus, perhaps I may.

Husband.
'Tis well you han't already stept aside;
If not, I'm sure you're damnably bely'd:
Not that I think so; but my Neighbours do,
Because you are so great with you know who.
But, for the future, you shall find, adsnigs,
I'll break the Neck of all your Jade's Intrigues.

Wife.
Do if you can; but if I've e'er done ill,
In spite of all your Craft, I'll do do so still.
Were I a faithless, or a wicked Creature,
Threats, Words, or Blows, should never make me better,

Husband.
Not that I think you mean me any Hurt:
But should I chance to catch you at the Sport,
You then should find, I'd make the Dev'l to do;
I'd not be doubly pointed at for you.

Wife.
When Woman's such a Fool to let her Spouse
Catch her in grafting Antlers on his Brows,
She then deserves to have the foul Disgrace
Publish'd in ev'ry common Market-place;
And by her horn mad Husband, to be made
A sad Example for a silly Jade.
But pray, suppose she's such a cunning Quane,
To do the Trick, and not be caught, what then?

Husband.
F'r ought I know, Hussy, you may be the Dame,
That has the Craft to sin without the Shame.
I'll have no Cousin Courtly, as you call him,
Come hither, Baggage; if he does, I'll maul him:
Not that I'm jealous, Hussy, but I scorn
My Neighbours here, where I was bred and born,
Should but so much as think I wear the Horn.

Wife.
Hussy not me; I'll no such Language bear,
My Fortune, Sirrah, made you what you are:
And must I now love, honour, and obey
A Fool that started up but t'other Day?
Not I, except it be the backward Way.

Husband.
Hussy, you are the most provoking Jade,
That surely ever curs'd a Marriage-Bed.
With ev'ry Pound, you've brought a thousand Plagues,
Would I had wedded some poor Wench in Rags
Rather than one so confidently bold;
A Jilt, a Slut, damn'd lazy, and a Scold.

Wife.
Too good for such a cross-grain'd, jealous Owl,
Pray who are you, you Sugar-candy Fool,
Bound 'Prentice by the Parish, f'r ought I know,
Tho' with my Fortune, now you make a Show,
And bluster with your Hogsheads round your Shop?
But, Sirrah, 'twas my Fortune set you up.

Husband.
'Tis false, you Slut; 'tis to my Neighbours known,
Ere plagu'd with you, I'd Money of my own,
Got by my Parents justly, God be prais'd,
And not by Quarts unseal'd, as yours was rais'd.
Short Measure, Hussy, fill'd your Father's Purse;
That makes your Fortune come with such a Curse.
I ne'er expect to thrive with what you brought,
Your canker'd Thousands were so basely got.
Your Breeding too, of which you boast and talk,
Arose from Vintner's Bar, and double Chalk.

Wife.
You L---e, you sorry Knave; that's English plain;
'Tis known my Father was an honest Man.
He fed the Poor, paid ev'ry one his Due;
That's more than any Man will say of you.
He ne'er with jealous Heats my Mother teaz'd,
But let her go and come when e'er she pleas'd;
Would trust her up all Night, and let her be
Jocund with Customers, with Drawers free;
And scorn'd to use a Wife, as you do me.

Husband.

Wife.
For Shame, you foul-mouth'd, bawdy Beast, forbear?
Is't fit your Wife such smutty Stuff should hear?
D'ye think the Secrets of our Nuptial Bed,
Should, when we're up, our common Chat be made?
Such Talk as yours, were not a Woman bent
To Modesty, would make her impudent.

Husband.
It was a fault, indeed; I blush for Shame;
Excuse me, Honey, I was much to blame.
'Twas Passion made me foolish, by my Life;
I know I should not talk so to a Wife.
Prithee forgive me; Bawdy I abhor;
What I have said, I vow I'm sorry for.
Come, let's be Friends; what signifies our wrangling?
Prithee, my Dear, let's lay aside our jangling.

Wife.
Be quiet, Foolish: How indecent this is?
Flatter not me with your dissembling Kisses.
Prithee, be modest: Is the Devil in ye?
I hate to humour such a jealous Ninny.
You're always scolding, like an ill-bred Clown;
Or else as fond as if 'twas Honey-Moon.

Husband.
We Men, my Dear, who love to whet our Spleen,
Only fall out, in order to fall in.
As Judges oft dissemble stern Behaviour,
And threaten hardest, when they mean most Favour.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[The Fool that weds a Shrew, because]

Dialogue XXI. Between a thriving Chandler and his Wife, about the Education of their Daughter.

Wife.
My Dear, you'll breed this Girl a very Fool,
Why don't you put her to the Dancing-School?
See how she holds her Head and treads her Toes,
Like a meer Bumpkin when she stands or goes,
Is so shame-fac'd, tho' enter'd in her Teens,
That she looks downwards, like a Sow in Beans:
Prithee, my Dear, consider, and bestow
Good Breeding on her for a Year or two.
See how her Breasts begin to heave and swell,
She'll soon be Ripe, for Reasons I can tell;
Therefore, my Dear, 'tis time she should be taught,
How she should sit or move as Maidens ought,
That when she's fit for Wedlock, she may hear
A Love-Address, without a trembling Fear,
Not steal away, and when her Lover comes,
Behind the Door stand biting of her Thumbs.

Husband.
My Dear, to tell the truth, I love to see
Young Maidens full of bashful Modesty;
If that's her only Fault 'efaith, my Pence
Shall never fly to teach her Confidence:
'Tis hard to find a Girl but learns that faster
Than it is fit she should, without a Master.
Methinks, my Dear, that you might find a way
T'improve her in that Talent ev'ry Day,
And not tempt me to fling away my Money,
To teach her that of which your self, my Honey,
Have been a Mistress e'er since I have known ye.

Wife.
Poh! this is nothing, I've a Back to bear
Your Jests, and Belly too, you know, my Dear;
What's that to th'purpose? I've a longing Mind
To do what I've this Twelemonth's Day design'd,
Which is, that Nanny shall to Dancing go,
Therefore, my Dear, you must not say me no;
You see my Neighbour Grub, that sorry Fool,
Can keep his Daughter at the Boarding School;
Nay, Smug the Smith, gives all his Children breeding,
And sends them out to writing and to Reading,
I'm sure we live as well, and save as much,
Why should you then so small a Matter grutch?
Prithee consent, you'll ne'er the sooner break,
'Tis hard we cannot scrape for one poor Chick,
An only Daughter and a hopeful Girl,
Who, if she'd Breeding, might deserve an Earl.

Husband.
Prithee don't teaze my Ears, you silly Tony;
Dance me no Dances, I've no dancing Money:
What tho' I have a Bag or two in store?
You'd have it less, I want to make it more,
And not, forsooth, to have my Neighbour's laughter,
By making a fine Madam of my Daughter:
I got my Money by my Work, not Play,
And therefore shall not fiddle it away;
I shall not prove that gen'rous Fool that spends,
On others Heels, the Labour of his Hands:
'Tis true, when in the Country once I liv'd,
Before I knew the plague of being Wiv'd,
Then round a May-pole I my self could Jirk it,
But never paid for Caper or for Firk it;
Therefore if you've a mind your pretty Daughter
Should learn such Dancing as becomes the Creature,
E'en send her thither, to her 'Haviours learn
Of some blind Fidler, where the School's a Barn,
There ev'ry Holiday the Girl may see
Such Dancing as will sute her Quality.

Wife.
Marry-come-up, I vow and swear I hate
To hear you talk; how like a Fool you prate:
If you provoke much longer, I protest,
I shall in Earnest be, when you're in Jest.
What do you make of the poor Girl? I hope
You think the Child your own, no Beggar's Drop.
You'd make her, I suppose, a Country Drudge,
With Farmer's Milk-Pale, Ankle-deep to trudge;
Or wade o'er Hills of Muck and shitten Bogs,
To milk his Carrion Cows and serve his Hogs:
But, Faith, if that's your ugly drift, look to't,
She's mine as well as yours, you stingy Brute;
Therefore I'd have you know, you fleering Knave,
You shall not make my only Child a Slave.

Husband.
Nor will I give it in your foolish Pow'r,
To breed her up to be a Jilt, a Whore,
A dancing Harlot, a deluding Strum,
To tempt young Rakehells with her jutting Bum,
A Tol dol Hussy, a harmonious Devil,
A skipping, tripping Minx, train'd up in Evil.
Prithee, good Madam, let her first be able
To read a Chapter truly in the Bible,
That she mayn't mispronounce God's People, Pople,
Nor read Cunst—able for Constantinople.
Make her expert and ready at her Pray'rs,
That God may keep her from the Devil's Snares;
Teach her what's useful, how to shun deluding,
To Roast, to Toast, to Boil, and mix a Pudding,
To Knit, to Spin, to Sew, to Make or Mend,
To Scrub, to Rub, to Earn, and not to Spend;
First teach her these, and then the pretty Fool
Shall jig her Crupper at the Dancing School.

Wife.
And what will all these Qualities avail her,
If she's ill bred, fit only for a Sailor;
Dancing's a Grace to ev'ry Limb and Feature,
And makes a Home-spun Lass a pretty Creature;
Causes young Men to love 'em and admire 'em,
And does with passionate Affection fire 'em.
Lists them above the greater Peoples Scorn,
And makes them look like Gentlewomen born.
But, cross-grain'd Fool, Did ever Mortal hear
A Lover, in his Courtship, ask his Dear
To read a Chapter, say her Pray'rs, or Creed?
That would, 'efaith, be pretty Sport indeed;
No, you're a Dancer, Madam, by your treading,
I vow I love you dearly for your Breeding;
Oblige me, Angel, with a charming Song,
Pray bless me with the Musick of your Tongue:
Lovers for these will beg, as for an Alms,
But who, when Courting, asks for Pray'rs or Psalms?
Yet my poor Girl, forsooth, must be deny'd
These charming Gifts in either Maid or Bride,
Because the stingy Fool, her Father, thinks
They become none but a fantastick Minx.

Husband.
I tell thee, Wife, once more, I'll have her bred
To Book'ry, Cook'ry, Thimble, Needle, Thread,
And all such Hussifry as well becomes
A Wife, for one that deals in Mops and Brooms;
For as I've got my Money by the same,
My Child shall be no Madam, but a Dame;
A careful Hussif, that when we are Dead,
Ma'inherit both my Money and my Trade,
That when she's Wed she may not think it Scandal
To serve Tom T---dman with a Farthing Candle.
Tell me of Dancing, Nouns! I'd sooner send her
To be train'd up by some old Witch of Endor.

Wife.
Go, you old Brute, you puritannick Knave,
Who in a Breath can Pray, Lye, Swear, and Rave.
Don't cry, my Child, thou shalt to Dancing go,
For all thy stingy Father says thee no.
Ne'er put thy Finger in thy pretty Eye,
I'll find a way to make the Brute comply;
I'll plague his Heart out, give his Ears their fill,
And never leave him till I've had my Will.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Mother's thro' too much Pride or Love]

Dialogue XXII. A Pastoral Dialogue between Coridon a Shepherd, and his Wife Phillis, concerning the innocent Pleasures of a Rural Life.

Husband.
How fares my Love beneath this happy Shade,
Where Fears nor Cares our peaceful Hours invade,
But where the chirping Birds and spreading Trees
Yields us at once both Harmony and Ease.

Wife.
Who can be otherwise than Blest, to find
Nature so generous, and you so kind?
The beauteous Meadows please my wand'ring Eyes,
And wean my Breast from worldly Vanities;
The Musick of the Birds delight my Ears,
And teach me to despise all worldly Cares;
The Glories of the Heavens, which unite
With teeming Earth, are Wonders to my sight;
And ev'ry Hour instruct my peaceful Soul,
To praise the Almighty Hand that fram'd the whole.

Husband.
I'm pleas'd to hear those Wonders you espy
Enrich your Mind, as well as please your Eye;
And that you view those distant Blessings given
To mortal Man, with such Regard to Heaven:
For how ingrateful is the thankless Guest,
Who can such vast celestial Dainties taste,
And not adore the hand that gave the happy Feast?

Wife.
What human Creature that does Reason boast,
Can prove so stupid till his Reason's lost?
What Mortal can behold yon flow'ry Meads,
Where purple Violets hang their fragrant Heads,
And golden Cowslips tow'r amidst the Grass,
Above the Primrose, in an humbler Class?
Or who look up tow'rds yonder glorious Light,
Whose blazing Lustre dazles human sight?
Or view the azure Canopy above,
Beneath whose Roof so many Wonders move,
And not be mindful of the Pow'r beyond,
Who in eternal Glory sits enthron'd?
None sure can view these Blessings and forget
Th'Almighty Pow'r that did the same create:
No humble Beggar does an Alms receive,
But thanks the Hand that does his Wants relieve.

Husband.
The greatest Comforts we on Earth can find,
Dwell in the Contemplations of the Mind;
Thought is alone the happy Soul's delight,
They're only blest that meditate aright:
Your inward Riches in your Words are seen,
For all without us you enjoy within,
And with a grateful and contented Breast,
Praise bounteous Heav'n, by whom we both are blest.
Whilst others, who more worldly Wealth enjoy,
For want of pious Thoughts their Peace destroy.
The thankless Wretch, amidst his useless Store,
Without the Riches of Content, is poor;
That heav'nly Blessing which is ne'er allow'd
To those who mix with the ingrateful Crowd,
Who wanting Grace to cultivate the Mind,
Still run in search of what they ne'er can find.
The Proud and Great in quest of Honour soar,
And barter downy Peace for noisy Pow'r;
The Rich unthankful for the Gifts they hold,
Disturb their Quiet to encrease their Gold;
The Trader thoughtless of the God that gives,
Breaks thro' all Morals, and by cheating thrives;
The Drunkard drowns his Happiness in Wine,
And to distract his Brains mispends his Coin;
The wanton sooth their amorous Desires,
And interrupt their Ease with lustful Fires;
The Gamester blusters o'er his Cards and Dice,
And, to once praising, curses Fortune twice;
The Soldier leaves his Children and his Wife,
For the loose Pleasures of a wretched Life.
In short, the giddy World are grown so weak,
They fly that very Happiness they seek;
And in the vain pursuit each robs his Mind
Of that Content which all desire to find.

Wife.

Husband.
No Blessings add more Comfort to my Life,
Than Gifts so heav'nly in so Fair a Wife,
Whose Knowledge makes your Beauty shine so bright,
That one informs, whilst t'other gives delight.
I'm blest to think that you, who have been bred
To a full Table and a downy Bed,
To Freedom, Ease, and Pleasure, far above
This mean and humble Sphere wherein you move,
Can be so well content beneath that Fate,
Which dooms you to this low dejected State,
Where no voluptuous Banquets crown the Day,
But our calm Hours in silence pass away;
No gaudy Pomp or Grandeur to surprize
Your Female Breast, or to delight your Eyes;
No Riches to be hop'd for, that can raise
Your Vertues on the Wings of humane Praise;
No fawning am'rous Fools or flatt'ring Knaves;
No Homage to be paid by humble Slaves;
In this low Sphere we nothing can command
But homely Food, with an industrious Hand;
No artful Sauces to our Fare improve,
Excepting sweet Content and mutual Love:
Nor can we these Felicities enjoy,
If Hopes or Fears our happy Lives annoy,
Or thirst of Riches does our Peace destroy.

Wife.

Husband.
Blest be the Hour it was my Lot to meet
Beauty so charming, with a Tongue so sweet!
A Wife whose matchless Vertues soar above
The reach of Praise, or the Rewards of Love.
O! that my kind Endeavours would compleat
Thy Joys, and make thy Happiness more great,
Each Hour should be a Scene of new delights,
More sweet than those we taste in Winter-Nights.
But since the Blessings of so rich a Prize,
So far above your Husband's Merits rise,
I'll, by your great Example, learn to be
As kind to you, as you are good to me.

Wife.
I've all that can enrich my peaceful Mind,
I need no further Comforts than I find;
Great as a Queen upon this verdant Throne
I sit, belov'd by you, controul'd by none;
You are my sov'reign Consort, and your Hook
Our Scepter, that commands the trembling Flock;
The Plain our Kingdom, where our Subjects graze,
The Foxes and the Wolves our Enemies,
Our Word, our Penal Laws, and the poor Cur
Our watchful speedy Executioner;
Who, at our Feet, lies ready to obey,
And smartly punish those that run astray,
Rends their white Garments they by Nature wear,
Hating their Wool because he's cloath'd with Hair;
So the black Robe, who do the Laws attend,
With lab'ring Jaws fleece others that offend.
Why therefore should not we contented be,
Wh' enjoy a mild and peaceful Sov'reignty,
And think our selves as Happy and as Great,
As they who with more trouble Rule a State,
Since Monarchs have less Ease and more Disputes,
Who govern Men, than those who govern Brutes.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[A rural Life upon the Plains]

Dialogue XXIII. Between a rattle-headed News-monger, and his prudent Wife.

Husband.
Brave News, my Dear, it joys my Heart, I vow,
To see how blue the Jacobites look now,
Eugene has beat the French, and taken Lisle,
There's News, my Love, would make a Woman smile
No High Church Wasp can say there's nothing in't,
The Post-Man has confirm'd it; 'tis in print.
Bless me! I've won I know not what, my Dear,
Two Quarts of Claret, and three Pots of Beer,
'Efaith, and Six-pence too in ready Money:
There's Luck, my Girl, there's happy News, my Honey?

Wife.
You'd better mind your Shop, than teaze your Brains
With News of Sieges, Battles, and Campaigns,
Inflame your Passions and distract your Wits,
In scanning what each partial Blockhead writes;
Ill News they dare not tell you, and if good,
They make it ten times better than they shou'd.
Why then from Bus'ness will you daily run,
To hear what such State-Parrots tell the Town,
Which when you know, and think yourself more wise,
You're only stuff'd with Guesses, Shams, and Lies;
For tho', perhaps, some Truths they may impart,
Yet then 'tis dash'd and brew'd with so much Art,
That few Men are so skilful to refine
What's Sterling, from their base, tho' current Coin:
Besides, what bus'ness is't of yours to glean
The foreign Actions of the Great Eugene?
Or to be so importunate to know
What's done A broad by the brave Marlborough?
Should you neglect your Shop, and waste your Wealth,
In drinking this Great Man or t'others Health,
You'd find, if broke, that neither would maintain
Your Family, or set you up again.
Why therefore will you hourly run in quest
Of News, till beggar'd and become a Jest?
When let things happen either ill or well,
The Consequence at last the Truth must tell.
Till then, my Dear, you should with Patience wait,
Because let Good or Bad come soon or late,
You must with others, share the common Fate.

Husband.
Prithee, my Dear, mind selling of my Wares,
Women but little know of State-Affairs;
Wives, in these Times, should keep our Shops, whilst we
Compare the Prints, and see how things agree.
What! wouldst thou have me be an empty Fool,
And know no more of News than Jobbernole?
Why, prithee, ev'ry Cobler quits his Awl,
And twice a Day for Coffee leaves his Stall,
Purely to read, or if he can't, to hear
What Wonders we have done this present Year.
Porters, at ev'ry Corner of the Street,
Read nothing now but Post-Man and Gazette.
The Tritons of the Thames at ev'ry Stairs,
Who us'd to bawl and scold about their Fares,
Forget their Animosities of late,
And only squabble now about the State.
St. Magnes Carmen, who would curse when vext
At the Church-door, about whose Turn was next,
Have long forsaken their old heath'nish use,
And only wrangle now about the News.
If such Paltroons as these presume to pry
Into State-Secrets, why, my Dear, may'nt I?
If those, when round an Ale-house Kitchen-fire,
Of Fleets and Armies may at large enquire;
Talk loosely when a well-laid Project fails,
And watch the Changes of the Wind, for Mails,
Sure 'tis no Crime in such as I, to Con
The News, that I may know how things go on.
Why then should I, a foolish Wife to please,
Be kept more ign'rant than such Brutes as these?

Wife.
He's the most Ign'rant who neglects his Good,
To run with other Fools the Common Road;
Your Business is your Family's support,
The less you do the more 'tis to your hurt;
Trade is your Substance, which you ought to mind,
But News a shadow to amuse Mankind;
And if you slight the former, thro' Mistake,
Like some vain Parrots for their Chatter's sake,
The Fable Puppy was as Wife a Creature,
And I should think you one of Æsop's Litter.
Besides, if News be canvass'd by such Vermin,
As Porters, Link-boys, Watermen, and Carmen,
What Man of Sense would waste six hours a day
To be as learn'd in Politicks as they,
Or who but Fools would value any sort
Of Pastime, once become the Rabble's sport?
If their Examples you so well esteem,
Why don't you swill Full-pots, and swear like them,
Prophane, Blaspheme, Lye, Squabble, Roar, and Fight,
And in Bear-Garden Combats take delight,
As well as to so eagerly pursue
That Fox, call'd News, as such loose Scoundrels do.
If they your printed Oracles defile,
Frown at one Passage, at another smile,
'Tis time for Tradesmen to despise the News,
And other Whims for their Diversion chuse.

Husband.

Wife.
Those shallow Reasons lessen not your Crime,
Such foolish Trifles are not worth your time,
You'd better mind your own Affairs, than please
Your self in height'ning Animosities;
What profit can attend such fruitless Ends,
But want, at least, of Business and of Friends;
The most you by such Measures can propose
Is loss of Trade, and the encrease of Foes:
What Man but you could keep his mind at Ease,
And waste his time in such Delights as these?
Prithee, for shame, reform your frantick Life,
And take, for once, good Counsel from a Wife,
Forsake your noisy Coffee-house and your News,
Where wrangling Pens the jarring World amuse.
Let Scriblers write and Party Zealots read,
Stay you at home and wisely mind your Trade;
For News is but a Policy of State,
To make the little Fools admire the great.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Whilst busy Cits neglect their Shop]

Dialogue XXIV. Between the happy Pair, concerning the Comforts of mutual Fidelity, and the innocent Pleasures of a retir'd Life.

Husband.
How bless'd, dear Chloe, is this sweet Recess?
How happy does our Love make ev'ry Place?
The charming Beauty which your Looks display,
Makes all Things pleasant, innocent, and gay.
Thus seated, we, without Offence, may boast
That blissful State our sinful Parents lost.

Wife.
Your kind Deportment, my indulgent Dear,
Your Love, Fidelity, and tender Care
Fill me with Joy, your Mansion house with Peace,
And make the World to me seem Paradise;
Where no Disorders reach my quiet Breast,
Or anxious Sorrows interrupt my Rest;
But all Things to my Happiness conspire,
And leave me nothing farther to desire
For since your Love is so divinely true,
The Gods have giv'n me all, in giving you.

Husband.
What savage Fury must possess my Mind,
To make me otherwise than just and kind,
Since all the Vertues that adorn the Fair,
Meet in your pious Breast, and centre there;
Whilst your external Charms, and lovely Mein,
Proclaim those Heav'nly Gifts that lodge within;
And ev'ry Hour your loving Looks convey
New Blessings to my Soul some secret way?

Wife.
O! that I had but Beauty to reward
Your faithful Love, and generous Regard;
Then might I merit that Esteem, which now
Does only from your native Goodness flow:
But I must own, I have too great a share
Of those weak Failings that affect the Fair;
And have not Charms sufficient to repay
Those kind Endearments I receive each Day.
However, Dearest, I'll obedient prove,
And still abound in Duty and in Love;
That what I want in outward Gifts, may be
Made up in Vertue and Humility.

Husband.
Such kind Angelick Words, my Dear, must move
A grateful Breast to an Excess of Love.
Had you no Charms, but Eloquence alone,
Express'd in such a soft and gentle Tone,
'Twould be enough to win a Heart like mine,
And make me glad to be entirely thine.
But, Chloe, you, besides, are young and fair,
And good as the immortal Angels are;
Humble, obedient, generous, and kind,
Adorn'd with all the Riches of the Mind,
That any Wife can boast, or Husband wish to find.

Wife.
O! that I could for ever but enjoy
So bless'd a Life, which Death will once destroy!
Why should my Love be punish'd with the Fear
Of ever parting with a Spouse so dear?
O! why should the severe Decrees of Fate
Put a dark Period to our happy State?
And leave the sad Surviver, to bemoan
A Life so wretched, when the other's gone,
That can admit no Comfort or Relief,
To ease our Groans, or moderate our Grief?

Husband.
'Tis hard, my Chloe; but the Gods are kind,
And for the Just, have future Joys design'd;
That Lovers, when they part, may ease their Pain,
By pleasing Hopes of meeting once again.
Death's but a peaceful Slumber in the Grave;
When we awake, we endless Life shall have;
And on eternal Wings, from thence arise
Beyond the Limits of yon dusky Skies;
There dwell in Friendship, with the Gods above,
And be for ever bless'd in Peace and Love.

Wife.
'Tis a great Comfort to my Soul, that we
Can be assur'd we shall for ever be;
For what could more disturb our happy State,
Than the distracting Fears, that Joys so great,
Should in eternal Silence terminate?

Husband.
These Thoughts, my charming Chloe, seem too grave
For a young Bride in all her Bloom to have.
Futurity's a Mystery too great
For Female Wit to fathom or debate.
Such Things we to our wiser Guides should leave,
Lest our weak Reason should our selves deceive.
Let us believe those Wonders we are taught;
Strive to be just in Action, and in Thought;
Be careful to support our Innocence;
Give neither to the Gods or Man Offence.
Pursue these Measures, hoping to be blest
And to kind Providence resign the rest,
Who wisely orders all Things for the best.

Wife.
Your friendly Dictates, are of greatest Force;
What you command me, I obey in course;
I'm taught alone, by what you say and do;
And hope I need no other Guide but you;
Your kind Examples are a tempting Road
To Vertue, Piety, and all that's good.
Therefore, my Dear, I cannot fear to stray,
Whilst you conduct me thro' so safe a way.

Husband.
Since, my dear Chloe, you depend on me,
I shall the more exact and upright be:
For who would from the Paths of Vertue fly,
To lead such charming Innocence awry?
What Man would, by the brightest Looks, be led,
From the just Pleasures of his Nuptial Bed,
Who has so true a Friend, so kind a Wife,
To crown the Comforts of a vertuous Life?
What Sot would such sweet Company decline,
To scorch his Nerves with an Excess of Wine;
And stagger into such delightful Arms,
Thoughtless of Love, and sensless of your Charms?
There belching lie, of Vigour dispossest,
Slighting those Joys he has no Pow'r to taste.
Thus the sick Appetite disdains the Food
As nauseous, which the Healthful find is good.
Usage, like this, might Female Thoughts confound,
And make the strictest Vertue quit her Ground.
But you, I hope, dear Chloe, are assur'd,
That you from all such Dangers are secur'd:
For I have too much Sense of your Desert,
Too just a Conscience, and too kind a Heart,
To suffer you, the Comfort of my Breast,
A Wife so charming, so divinely blest,
To feel the Torments of unmanly Strife,
Or lead an injur'd, or neglected Life:
For I have Sense and Gratitude to know
The Nuptial Blessings we expect below,
Must from true Love and mutual Vertue flow.

Wife.
You make your Goodness ev'ry Moment known;
I fear not yours, but rather doubt my own,
Lest Female Weakness spoils my good Intent,
And renders that amiss, which well is meant;
So that my Love, which glows to an Extream,
May short of yours, thro' Indiscretion, seem.
For the rough Diamond cannot shine so bright,
As the Gem polish'd to a skilful height;
Yet both may equal Estimation bear,
Tho' one with greater Lustre does appear.

Husband.
But, Love, that Jewel which adorns the Heart,
Shines the most bright without the Help of Art;
All other Wealth in Value it exceeds;
And if it's true, it no Improvement needs;
Its own intrinsick Worth it will display,
And thro' the Eyes, like Lightning, make its way.
Therefore, dear Chloe, I your Love can view,
In each kind Thing you either say or do:
Your Looks alone, sufficiently impart
The gen'rous Ardour that inflames your Heart;
So that 'tis I must summon all my Pow'rs,
To make my Friendship adequate to yours;
For in your Heav'nly Nature, I discern
Those Duties, others must be forc'd to learn!

Wife.
You make me happy in your kind Conceit
That in my Breast such Love and Vertue meet.
O! that I could but be as free from Fau'ts,
And raise my Merits equal to your Thoughts,
Then should I hope so rich a Heart might prove,
Deserving your inestimable Love:
But I, alas, can boast no Charms to please,
No Arts to palliate my Infirmities;
I have no study'd Smiles t'improve my Air:
No skilful Means to make my Looks more fair;
But must at best discover, that I am
A rural, home-spun, tho' an honest Dame,
Who nothing but her Vertue has to boast,
And can but prove a loving Wife at most.

Husband.
Your native Sweetness I alone admire,
And your Esteem is all that I desire,
Besides the Offspring of our Nuptial Bed,
To bless the future World, when we are dead:
For amongst all that Heaven has in Store,
No kind Donation could I wish for more,
Than that the Fruits of so divine a Tree,
Might spread and flourish to Eternity,
That distant Ages still to come, might read
Thy noble Vertues in our gen'rous Seed.

Wife.
I hope, my Dear, since 'tis your earnest Choice,
That Heav'n, in Time, will crown our Nuptial Joys:
Few Moons, as yet, have pass'd that happy Day,
On which I vow'd to honour and obey:
My tender Years may still with Patience wait;
I'm unexperienc'd in a marry'd State:
And therefore know not but the Gods above,
May have already crown'd our mutual Love.

Husband.
I wish it so may prove; with what Delight
Could I behold so promising a Sight?
A Wife so beauteous, pregnant in her Bloom;
A Female Angel with a fruitful Womb.
May Nature's Pow'rs the darling Bud encrease,
And the kind Gods the happy Fœtus bless,
That I may live to tremble at thy Cries,
Pity those Pains that do thy Nerves surprize,
And pray good Heav'n to turn thy Sorrows into Joys.

Wife.
The Pangs of Child-birth, doubtless must be great,
Tedious the Moments, and severe the Fate;
But yet, methinks I could with Patience bear
The sharpest Suff'rings, to oblige my Dear.
What is't I could not do? What Hazards run,
To raise your Image in a sprightly Son?
That your own Likeness, full of Infant Charms,
Might bless your Eyes, and my indulging Arms.

Husband.
How happy, dearest Chloe, should we be,
To see a fair Angelick Progeny,
Sporting around us, free of all Offence,
Like Cherubs in a State of Innocence?
Some wearing on their Brows your beauteous Smiles,
That their sweet Looks may bless their Father's Toils;
Others appearing of a courser mould,
Like me, more active, masculine, and bold;
That you each Hour in Miniture may view
My Image, and your fading Love renew.

Wife.
No Time, my dear Philander, can impair
The high Esteem I for your Vertues bear;
Th'Impression is too strong, my Love too great,
For Age or Envy to obliterate.
I ne'er shall want such Blessings to revive
Those vertuous Flames, that will for ever live;
Yet should I think my self divinely blest,
To hug your Image at my tender Breast,
That those Indearments, I should fondly shew
To my sweet Babe, altho' by Nature due,
Might manifest the Love I bear to you.

Husband.

Wife.
I'm free to all that is your Will to do,
Your prudent Measures gladly I pursue;
For I am only happy in obeying you.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Where mutual Love 'twixt Man and Wife]

Dialogue XXV. Between a generous Mechanick and his old stingy Wife, about her locking up the Cupboard to keep the Victuals from his Apprentices.

Husband.
Hey day! what's here to do? the Cupboard door
Lock'd up! what, Madam, must we eat no more?
Why, how now, Mistress Wife, who is it puts
This Bar betwixt my Victuals and my Guts?
Boys, split the Door: why sure, my saving Honey,
You don't take Beef and Bread and Cheese for Money?

Wife.
Don't be so hasty, Love, I mean no hurt,
Here take the Key, 'tis but their asking for't:
Did you but see the Waste those Gluttons make,
You'd then commend me for the Care I take.
That slouching Rogue that laughs at what you say,
Had he his Will, would eat ten times a Day.
That thin-jaw'd Hound too, had he but his Mind,
For all his Looks, would not be far behind:
Victuals, I'll swear, is ill bestow'd upon
That sneaking Whelp, that raw-bon'd Skeleton;
Were he to eat as much as half a dozen,
The ill-got Lout would still look starv'd and frozen.

Husband.
Therefore it shan't be said I keep him poor
And thin, because I lock my Cupboard-Door:
I'll have no Smith's Embargo on my Food,
Eat Boys, as often as yourselves see good;
Let them have change of Mutton, Beef, and Pork,
Do you take care they Feed, I'll make 'em Work.
My Servants shall to no Relations creep,
And there complain of what a House I keep;
Tell 'em their stingy Mistress bears the Rule,
And cry because they ha'n't a Belly-full.
Let me have no such doings I command,
I scorn to give a Wife the upper-hand:
I'm Master here, mind you your Maids concerns,
No Boy of mine shall want the Food he earns.

Wife.
Lord! Love, you cannot think what they devour,
I vow and swear they're Cramming ev'ry Hour?
Saw you how oft they to the Cupboard come,
You'd think they'd eat you out of House and Home.
One gobbles down two Pound of Bread and Cheese,
When almost burst to th'Vault he runs for ease;
From thence returns unburthen'd in a trice,
And stuffs his empty Guts with t'other Slice:
No sooner is this wide mouth'd Glutton gone,
But t'other lean jaw'd Cormorant sneaks down,
And he, forsooth, no Cheshire-Cheese can eat,
His dainty Chops must break his Fast with Meat,
Then out he pulls his Knife, and off he cuts
A Pound of Beef for his insatiate Guts,
Which his stretch'd Gullet swallows down so fast,
As if he meant each Bit should prove his last;
For in three Minutes fairly he'll devour
More than would last an hungry Dog an Hour,
Straining with Morsels so profusely great,
You'd think him choak'd with ev'ry Bit he eat:
Thus, all day long, like Buckets in a Well,
They take their Turns to empty and to fill;
And is it fit, d'ye think, such Wolves as these,
Should search and range the Cupboard when they please.

Husband.
Yes, yes, much good may do 'em with their Meat,
I never care how fast my Servants eat,
Speedy at Victuals, quick at Work's an old
Proverbial Saying, we have oft been told;
I've found it true, and therefore do not grutch
Their eating nimbly, tho' 'tis ne'er so much:
I'll warr'nt you'd have them loiter at their Meals,
Piddle like Mice and crawl about like Snails,
Feed like sick Patients dieted by Quacks,
And look like hide-bound Tits that carry Packs,
Work too like those that raise the Wooden Walls
Of the Queen's Ships, or lazy Rogues in Paul's:
No, no, my Master's Methods I'll pursue,
That's Feed 'em well, and make 'em Work so too;
For he that stints his Servants in their Food,
Makes the Bad worse, and irritates the Good,
That what he thinks he saves they cast away,
And makes his Stock their pinch-gut Money pay.

Wife.
Do as you please, my Dear, but I am sure,
Such wastful Ways will always keep us poor;
Apprentices I've seen in other Trades,
Have their Meat carv'd by th'Mistress or her Maids,
Nor did they dare to grumble or complain,
That this was cut too Fat, or that too Lean,
But eat whate'er the Mistress thought was fit,
And fear'd to frown, or ask for t'other Bit;
But your bold Boys, regarding not your Wife,
When call'd to dine, each draws his crooked Knife,
Upon the Groundcel whets his Sheffield Blade,
And both, forsooth, sit down before my Maid,
Fall to like Plow-men at a Country Feast,
And with unhallow'd Fingers pick the best;
One crying out, Go, Hannah, draw some Beer;
The other, Huzzy, bring the Mustard here.
Indeed, my Dear, it is a shame to see
Apprentices so very bold and free,
Or that at Meals such Boys should first sit down,
And crow above a Wench that's Woman grown.

Husband.
My Boys are good Mens Sons, well born and bred,
They've paid me Pounds for teaching them my Trade,
Besides, they earn me ev'ry Day they Dine,
Not only their own Bread, but yours and mine;
Yet, I suppose, you want to have 'em made
Meer Slaves and Footboys to your nasty Jade,
To run to th'Chandlers for the Mops and Brooms,
And fetch her Water when she scrubs her Rooms,
Be her Cole-heavers to preserve her Hands,
And stoop to all her prodigal Commands;
If that's your drift, my parsimonious Dame,
I shall take care to disappoint your Aim;
No saucy Baggage, fondl'd by a Fool,
Shall awe my Servants, or my Boys controul;
I'd have you know I keep such Sluts as she,
To wait on them at Meals as well as me;
I give her yearly Wages, and you ought
To know their Work enables me to do't;
My golden Boys earn Money ev'ry Day,
By them I live and thrive, eat, drink and pay;
Therefore yourself and survile Puss shall find,
No Lads of mine your Female Pride shall mind;
That Master, sure, must be a Hen peck'd Fool,
Who lets the Women o'er his Men bear Rule;
'Tis hard that good Mens Children, bound to Trades,
Should be made Lacqueys to our Wives and Maids;
But in those Tradesmens Houses 'twill be so,
Where Men are silent and the Women crow.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[The prudent Master, who allows]

Dialogue XXVI. Between a nice affected Gentleman, and his careless, slatternly Lady.

Husband.
Why are your Night-cloaths on, your Stays unlac'd?
I love to see you powder'd, wash'd, and dress'd.
A tallow Face in dirty Pinners looks
Like a poor Punk just risen from a Flux:
You crown the Proverb, That the nicest Maid
Becomes the greatest Slattern when she's wed;
And that each Woman in a Nuptial State,
Proves careless Slut, or Jilt, by Choice or Fate.

Wife.
Thank you, my Spouse, some People say, a Beau,
When marry'd, does the greater Coxcomb grow.
Prithee, my Dear, don't be so nice, lest you
Should chance to prove the modern Proverb true.
I've heard most Men are subject to admire
The Woman that they like in loose Attire;
From whence 'tis said our Sex is always best
Approv'd by Lovers, when we're most undrest:
But I perceive, alas, you squeamish Beaus,
Think female Beauty dwells in formal Cloaths;
And when our Charms upon your hands grow stale,
Neglect the Kernel to adore the Shell.
So the weak Appetite must have his Meat
Set off with artful Sauce to make him eat,
Whilst the sound Stomach feasts on Flesh or Fish,
And ne'er regards the Garnish of the Dish.

Husband.
Women and Food I love to see well drest,
For what offends my Eye ne'er sutes my Taste.
Who but a Sloven can admire a Face,
Unwash'd, unpatch'd, mob'd up in dirty Lace,
Whose ruffl'd Trallups disoblige the Sight,
And shew by Day, how wanton you're at Night;
Those Coifs between the Nuptial Sheets you wear,
Should never in the Noon of Light appear;
They make you look like Sempstress of the Town,
In rumpl'd Disabil, just bolted down
Some Temple-Stairs, from earning Half-a-Crown.
Believe me, therefore, I abhor to see
A Wife loose Rig'd, so like a Punk as thee;
With sully'd Night cloaths dangling round thy Head
Dy'd yellow with your joyful Sweats in Bed.
Prithee withdraw, dear Dowdy, from my View,
Or what should raise my Love will make me S---w.

Wife.
Tho' now you seem so nice, were you to 'spy
A newer Face, tho' more a Slut than I,
Wrap'd up in Muslin-Rags, not half so white,
Tug'd ev'ry Day and rumpl'd ev'ry Night,
Tho' wash'd but once a Week, you'd never mind
Her Dress, but be to all her Failings blind;
Would she but dart from her prevailing Brows,
One smiling glance to wound my Beauish Spouse,
Or say so loud t'her Maid, that you might hear,
Laud he's a pretty Gentleman, I'll swear;
I can but think how you'd admire the Dame,
And with her dirty Pinners fan your Flame,
Swear her foul Linnen was the only Grace,
Or Foil, to set off such a beauteous Face;
And that it gave such freedom to her Air,
That made her look less formal and more fair:
These are the Flatt'ries you can use to those
Whose Bodies are unclean as well as Cloaths;
But 'tis a wond'rous Crime to see a Wife
In dirty Nightrail or a sully'd Coif.
Why, squeamish Husband, do you not despise
The tarnish'd Plate that in your Coffer lies;
Or scorn the Ground you tread on, cause 'tis wont,
Sometimes, like me, to harbour Dust upon't:
I'm none of those that spend six Hours a Day,
To appear, by study'd Arts, more young and gay;
I to no Pencil do my Eye-brows owe,
Nor do my Cheeks with Spanish Crimson glow;
I use no Washes to improve my Skin,
Nor Acids drink to keep my Body lean,
That my nice Shapes, to merit humane Praise,
May still sit easy in my Maiden Stays:
I use no skilful Means in my Attire,
To make young Fools, in vain, my Charms admire.
I love my tender Children, and delight
To toy with them all Day, with you at Night,
And must a sully'd Nightrail now offend,
Or a coarse Pinner make you less my Friend;
Change you your Temper and 'twill change the Scene,
Be you less nice, and I shall seem more clean:
Husband's should wink, when now and then they find
Their Wives confus'd in Dress, as well as Mind:
What tho' unclean by chance, Experience tells,
The best of Oysters may have dirty Shells.

Husband.
But you, as if you meant to thwart my Will,
Are always in a Slatterns Disabil;
And shew, by constant practice, you delight
More in foul Linnen than you do in white.
E're I with Pains had won you to my Arms,
Your Dress was then unsully'd as your Charms,
The finest Laces did your Temples crown,
White as the driven Snow or Thistly Down;
Your Gloves, your Fan, and ev'ry thing you wore
As clean as if unmade an Hour before;
But since I've brought you to a Nuptial Life,
And you're become a Mother and a Wife,
Uncleanly Negligence your Charms disgrace,
And foul Indecence muffles up your Face;
For want of Stays your Sides prepost'rous grow,
And hang in wallups o'er your Hips below,
Both join, nor can your Apron strings between,
Bury'd in Folds of flabby Fat, be seen;
Your Breast, like Udders, to your Navel drop,
For want of Stomacher to prop them up;
And your Pot Belly, swell'd with Drink and Ease,
Seems full of Dropsical Infirmities;
Your Petticoats, half-ty'd, hang loosely on,
Like a burst Hoop about an upright Tun:
And your stain'd Flag of Hussifry before,
Looks worse than that by greasy Scullion wore;
Your Nightrail too, which round your Neck you tye,
To hide your Shapes, is of a Saffron dye,
That any Eye would guess 't'as lain, at least,
This fifty Years, unwash'd, in Grannum's Chest;
Your Wirey-Hair, like Ell-flocks, starts beneath
Your Coif, and hangs in here and there a Wreath,
Whilst your plump Cheeks, by Nature fram'd to please,
Look grim'd with Dirt, like Vulcan's smutty Phiz:
These are the Graces that adorn your Charms,
To please your Spouse and tempt him to your Arms.
Who then can marry'd live, and not admire
So nice a Hussif in such clean Attire.

Wife.
Right Beau, to loath what you have long enjoy'd,
I'm not so sluttish, but your Fancy's cloy'd,
And now 'tis Pleasure to your wand'ring Thoughts,
To School your Wife and magnify her Fau'ts.
Could you but with impartial Judgment see
Your own nice, foppish Pride and Vanity;
In what a formal Gesture you delight,
What Pains you take to make your Wig sit right,
With what premeditated Grace you bend
Your formal Shoulders to your Bosom-Friend,
How you advance, what Dancing Steps you take,
When to a Lady your Approach you make,
How you exchange your Ruffles thrice a Day,
How oft you powder, to appear more Gay,
What Time you waste before the flatt'ring Glass,
To turn and tiff and make your self an Ass,
What Hours in Dressing you confound in vain,
To shew your self less wise than other Men,
You then no more would wonder why I seem
A Slut to him, so nice to an Extream;
For I must either play the Fool and rise
To all your squeamish cleanly Vanities,
Or be a Slattern deem'd, 'cause I admire
My Ease beyond extravagant Attire;
Would you your Foppish Vanities abate,
And from your nice Extreams turn moderate,
I'd meet you then half way, and strive to dress
With newer Air and greater Cleanliness:
But if a Fly-speck on my Paper-Fan,
Or a soil'd Glove, must merit your Disdain,
An accidental Spot upon my Gown,
Or a chance Lock displac'd shall make you Frown;
So long in vain must I attempt to please,
Whilst you're offended with such things as these
Consider, I've been seven Years a Wife,
My Children are the Pleasures of Life,
'Tis time for me to quit my tempting Airs,
And bend my Genius to my Home Affairs,
To mind my Female Servants, and to see
Their Work perform'd with Care and Hussifry
These Nuptial Duties must sometimes employ
A Wife from Dressing to delight your Eye:
Nor can I think it otherwise than vain,
In you, a Father and a marry'd Man,
To still maintain that youthful foppish Pride,
Which Men at riper Years should lay aside:
I equally abhor to find you please
Your self with such fantastick Fooleries,
And vex as much to see you dizen'd up,
With all the Frip'ries of a foolish Fop,
As you can do when I appear unlac'd,
Or in soil'd Linnen, like a Slattern dress'd;
Therefore expect I'll still more sluttish grow,
Till you forbear to be so much a Beau;
Both are Extreams, and I'll confront you thus,
Whilst you're a Fop, I'll be a nasty Puss.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[When Husbands do their Wives reprove]

Dialogue XXVII. Between a High-Church Gentleman and his Low-Church Lady, about the difference of of their Opinions.

Husband.
Come, come, my Dear, forsake your Canting Tribe,
Marriage has made you now my crooked Rib,
My Flesh can brook no Lame Dissenting Bone,
Join with the rest, or you my Side disown;
A dislocated stubborn Rib I hate.
Prithee, to Church, and that will set thee streight.

Wife.
D'ye think I'll go to Mass, not I, indeed,
I'll be no Convert to a Popish Creed:
No, Satan, I defy thy wicked Power,
No Babylonian Whore shall draw me to her;
I hate her Smock, her Porridge, and her Pipes,
Her Butcher's-Sleeves, her Crosses, and her Types,
Her Pagan Altars, and her Dagon Priests,
Her Easter Off'rings, and her Christmas Feasts,
Her Shepherd's Crooks, her Miters, and her Saints,
Her Pancake Tuesdays, and her starving Lents;
I'd sooner chuse to bear your utmost hate,
Than damn my precious Soul at such a rate;
Therefore, pray Husband, let's have no Dispute,
For Fire and Faggot should not bring me to't.

Husband.

Wife.
You'd need find Fault, indeed, and say that I
Am taught to only rail and villify,
When you reflect that I the Church asperse,
I'm sure the Kettle calls the Pot Black arse.
How can you thus abuse so good a Saint,
So heavenly a Guide as Mr. Quaint,
So Grave, so Pious, and as Just a Man,
As ever preach'd 'twixt Bersheba and Dan?
What tho', perhaps, when young, he was not bred
At what you Churchmen call the Fountain-head?
Can Holy Men to Knowledge never rise,
But they must pass your Popish Versities?
How came the Prophets, pray, to leave behind
Those Holy Truths which we in Scripture find?
I've heard they ne'er were whip'd at Grammar-School,
Nor taught long Lessons, or to speak by Rule,
Yet they (Good-Men) all Christians must allow,
Were wiser far than all your Bishops now;
Besides th'Apostles too were meanly bred,
Some to catch Fish, and that's no learned Trade,
Yet they commanded were to go and teach
All Nations, and without a Book could Preach,
Much better than your Priests, who strain their Throats
To pray by Mass Books and to preach by Notes.
Why then mayn't Holy-Men from Looms be call'd,
As well as Peter from the Nets he haul'd,
And be inspir'd, like him, to shew aright,
The Path that leads to everlasting Light.

Husband.
Well said, my Dear, you've let me see at once,
How Fools are taught to vindicate a Dunce,
Who has no other way to be admir'd,
But to pretend a Call and seem Inspir'd.
So Pagan Kings, to hide their mean Descent,
Back'd by their Priests, strange Stories would invent,
That they were born of Heav'n to rule a State,
Tho' brawny Clown begot the spurious Brat.
Just so your Guides, proud Hypocrites at Heart,
Who from their Garrets into Pulpits start,
Pretend Commission by a Call unknown,
To be, by Grace, adopted Heaven's Son;
And that those Myst'ries from the Fools conceal'd,
Are only to the yawning Knaves reveal'd.
What tho' the Apostles from their Nets were made
Fishers of Men, as 'tis in Scripture said;
Their Holy Lives, the Doctrine that they taught,
Their pious Works, the Miracles they wrought,
All plainly prove they were by Heav'n inspir'd,
With Gifts that could not be by Art acquir'd;
They nothing taught but what's divinely Good,
And ev'ry distant Language understood;
But your illit'rate Dunce, your groaning Block,
Who whoops and hollows to his brainless Flock,
With all his Gifts that labour in his Crown,
No Language understands, nay, not his own,
But cons his Lesson till by heart 'tis got,
And, Parrot-like, talks Scripture but by rote;
Therefore he tells you 'tis a Crime to look,
In time of Preaching, on the Sacred Book,
Because he knows he should be run a-ground,
In reading what he ventures to expound:
His Hems, his Hesitations, and his Cough,
Would drown the Sense, and make the Bigots laugh,
To hear him mispronounce Old Eliazer,
And read, perhaps, Bullbeggar for Belshazer.
I cannot longer let you tread amiss,
In following such an empty Guide as this.
You must consider, since you marry'd are,
Your Soul is now become your Husband's Care,
And 'tis my Nuptial Duty to explode
Your Female Errors and regard your Good;
Therefore, I say, you must to Church repair,
And learn the Holy Worship practis'd there:
For when Experience makes you once more wise,
You'll hug those Holy Things you now despise,
And thank me then that I've redeem'd your Soul,
From the vile Clutches of an ign'rant Owl.

Wife.
O! bless me, sure you will not serve me so,
Must I to Mass and Purgatory go?
I'll to no Popish painted Altar bow,
Or kneel, then rise and stand I know not how:
I'll not be tutor'd, catechiz'd, or taught,
To Jabber like a Magpye, G*d knows what:
The very Noise, I'm sure, would make me faint,
No, no, I'll trust my Soul with Mr. Quaint,
That godly Man, who loves and fears the Lord,
That faithful Teacher of the Holy Word,
Who, when he Preaches, or Expounds, or Prays,
Tells, in plain English, what the Scripture says.
I'll pin no Faith upon a High-Church Gown,
Altho' my Body's yours, my Soul's my own;
And, by the help of Grace, it ne'er shall be
Seduc'd to such profane Idolatry:
I'll still be steadfast, 'tis in vain to teaze,
But you may hazard yours what way you please.

Husband.
If so resolv'd, it ought to be my Care
To guard my Cash, and keep your Pockets bare,
That no dissembling Pick-Purse shall command
My Money, by my Wife's deceitful Hand:
I'll have no Presents bought, no Guineas sent
By Gossip Drill, to Rev'rend Master Cant:
Nor shall he dare to thrust his Holy Snout
Within my Doors, when told that I am out;
For should a Servant in my House presume
To give him entrance here, when I'm from Home,
As soon as I'm inform'd I'll turn them off,
And drive the Rebel hence with Kick and Cuff:
Nor shall your self from Punishment go free,
But, from that Hour, be under Lock and Key:
And if I chance to catch the Pick thank here,
Whisp'ring his Tales into your list'ning Ear,
After I've thus his Company forbidden,
I'll Geld him, as they do the Priests in Sweden.

Wife.
O! cruel Tyrant, would you seek his Blood,
And make an Eunuch of a Man of God;
I'll send him notice, that he ne'er may come
Within your wicked Doors when you're at Home.
Geld such a Holy Saint! O sinful Brute!
Here's Persecution with a witness to't!
The Lord protect him whereso'er he goes,
And guard him from the Malice of his Foes.
Bless me! that such a dreadful and profane
Design should start into the Heart of Man.
What has he done, good Soul, that he should lose
What, I dare swear, he ne'er knew how to use,
Not in a sinful manner I am sure,
His Soul's too Righteous, and his Thoughts too Pure.
By these your Threat'nings you too plainly show,
What Malice High-Church bears against the Low,
I'll swear I would not use a Jesuit so.
However, Words nor Blows shall overcome me,
I shall not fear what Man can do unto me,
But will be steadfast in the Righteous way,
In spite of all that you can do or say.

Husband.
Since you're so much concern'd that I should steal
The Bandstrings of your Guides pretend Zeal,
Which by the Female Tribe have oft been ty'd,
And, for ought I know, by your self been try'd,
I'll make a Vow ne'er to embrace you more,
Till you your Saint and all his Tribe abjure,
Unbedded and neglected shall you lie,
Till with the true Church-Worship you comply,
No more shall you the Nuptial Joy possess,
But like a Widow spend your youthful Days;
For she can ne'er Love truly, or obey,
Whose wand'ring Soul seeks Heav'n a diff'rent way.

Wife.
O barb'rous Man to break his Marriage Troth,
But pray, my Love, don't make so rash an Oath;
Nay, prithee hush, for God's sake do not swear,
Don't Vow and I'll do any thing, my Dear.

Husband.
Be then obedient to my Will, and leave
Those Canting-Knaves, who labour to deceive,
Who fright you from the Truth with odious Lies,
And, thro' your Folly, make themselves seem wise;
Encourage you to circumvent and cheat
Your own, to make their Families more great;
Wedlock our Souls as well as Bodies join,
You therefore ought to venture yours with mine;
If not, pray bid your Nuptial Sheets adieu,
I'll have no Flesh but with the Spirit too.

Wife.
L---d! you're the strangest Man I ever knew,
You are too rash, consider what you do:
Methinks, my Dear, I am unwilling now
We're marry'd, you should make so rash a Vow;
I cannot lose your Love, or frame a Heart
To dwell beneath one Roof, yet lie apart:
Therefore, my Dear, don't aggravate my Sorrow,
Bed me to Night, I'll go to Church to Morrow.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[When Man and Wife pull diff'rent Ways]

Dialogue XXVIII. Between a young Libertine, and an old canting rich Widow, whom he had marry'd for her Money.

Husband.
Prithee, old Granny, hold thy jarring Tongue;
Tho' you are old and toothless, I am young.
Fill not my Ears with Noise, or Breast with Cares,
But mind thy Brandy-Bottle, and thy Pray'rs.
What, tho' I've warm'd thee in my Nuptial Sheets,
And thaw'd thy frozen Limbs with joyful Heats,
Must I not therefore to the Tavern stir,
But thus be teaz'd with so much Chum and Chir?
Forbear your Preaching, with your Cant have done;
Sure, Mother Wife, you take me for your Son.

Wife.
I only do what ev'ry Woman shou'd,
Advise a wicked Husband for his Good.
Do you not ev'ry Day swear, game, and drink?
What will become of your poor Soul, d'ye think?
Do you not keep a Strumpet young and fair,
In better Dress than I presume to wear?
Treat the lewd Slut; and Coach the Trull about?
Whilst I, alas! am glad to walk on Foot?
Am I not forc'd to go to Church alone,
Neglected by my Spouse, as if I'd none?
Whilst you, perhaps, the Holy Sabbath waste
In the vile Arms of some lascivious Beast.
O fie! my Dear, what can you think will prove
The sad Event of such unlawful Love?
Body and Soul must for your Pleasure pay;
And when you've squander'd your Estate away,
The gaudy Snakes you have so oft embrac'd,
Who help you to expend your Wealth so fast,
Will triumph o'er your sad Decay at last.

Husband.
Such Doctrine from a Priest, is well enough;
But from a Wife, 'tis very nauseous Stuff.
What Man would mind the most authentick Truth,
Spoke by a Magpy, or a Parrot's Mouth?
Kind am'rous Lectures, from a Wife that's young,
Delight the Ear, and well become the Tongue;
But such long Sermons, and Reproofs as these,
From an old Hag, are a confounded teaze;
Such rev'rend Speeches, from a grizly Jade,
Fitter for Witchcraft, than a Nuptial Bed,
Can ne'er be pleasant to an airy Spouse,
Too young for barren Joys, and wrinkl'd Brows.

Wife.
Fool that I was! O! curse the fatal Hour,
In which I gave my Bags into your Pow'r;
What fawning Protestations could you make,
And Vows, to keep what now each Hour you break?
Did you not swear, that I should always find
Your Words respectful, and your Actions kind?
But now, alas! your Flatt'ries have obtain'd
My useful Wealth, my Person is disdain'd;
My Age despis'd, my Nuptial Hopes buffoon'd;
My Love but laugh'd at, and my Fortune ruin'd;
And, because destitute of youthful Charms,
Hateful my Bed, and nauseous are my Arms.

Husband.
Faith, Madam, if you'd know the real Truth,
I can't join Lips with such a toothless Mouth;
Which, like Pandora's Box, affords such Fumes,
That smell of Death, and stink of rotten Gums.
I cannot kiss, when you have done your Pray'rs,
And your Cheeks clammy with repenting Tears:
Or can I hug, when I have heard your Groans,
A wither'd skinful of such mouldy Bones:
Your Pains and Aches fright me from your Arms,
I can't be tempted, where there are no Charms.
Therefore, since you would be so vain, to buy
So young a Spouse, when you were past the Joy,
My Sins are chargeable on your sweet Tooth,
Which, in your Age, had such a Lust to Youth:
For who can, in his Prime and Vigour, wed
A wither'd Relict, toothless and decay'd,
And not, for Beauty's sake, defile his Marriage-Bed?

Wife.
O wicked Man! why would you then approve
A Woman for your Wife, you could not love?
If Age, that's destitute of Female Charms,
Be so obnoxious to your younger Arms,
My Failings could not, from your Eyes, be hid.
The Faults you find, you in my Looks might read,
Before your Flatt'ries brought me to agree
To give you Title to my Wealth, and me.
Why then would you so ill a Match pursue,
To make me wretched, and your self so too?
If you foresaw my fading Years would prove
So great an Antidote to Nuptial Love,
Why should you put on Nature such a Force,
As to join Age for better and for worse?
Therefore, since you, who knew me to be old,
With all my Faults, would wed me for my Gold
'Tis barb'rous now to slight me, and despise
My Age, for my foreseen Infirmities.
Since I to make you happy, have resign'd
My Wealth, you ought in Conscience to be kind;
And not to waste that Riches which I brought
On common Sluts, most scandalously naught:
For since I gave you what you spend on them,
The Donor ought to share in your Esteem;
Because consider, Wretch, that 'tis my Gold
Helps you to younger Flesh, tho' I am old.

Husband.
'Tis true, your Age and Money are the Cause
That I so oft transgress the Marriage-Laws:
For who can bury'd lie in wither'd Arms,
That wants no Wealth to purchase youthful Charms?
If you, with rev'rend Furrows on your Brows,
Would hazard all, to wed a strenuous Spouse,
How can you think, that I should be content,
I, who am youthful, and to Pleasures bent,
To waste my Days, and fool away my Nights,
With a dry Skeleton, past Love's Delights?
If frozen Age, i'th' Winter of Decay,
On a young Mate would fling her Wealth away,
Pray how can such a Wife, with Justice, blame
A youthful Husband, when he does the same?
For if Love's Appetite will prove so strong
In aged Veins, who have enjoy'd it long,
Well may the Brisk and Youthful run astray,
Since old decrepid Letchers shew the Way!

Wife.
Men always frame a plausible Excuse
For lawless Freedoms they are prone to use.
The Wicked their Evasions never want;
The Villain labours to be thought a Saint;
And if detected, slily casts the Blame
On others, that himself may shun the Shame.
Those who the worst of Villanies pursue,
Still plead Necessity for what they do;
And ev'ry common Prostitute, pretends
She sins for want of Money, or of Friends;
When 'tis alone their Lust, for Want of Grace,
That spurs them forward to be lewd and base.
So you would make my barren Age, the Cause
Why you offend, and break good Heaven's Laws;
When your own sinful Appetites mislead
Your wav'ring Heart to wrong your Marriage Bed.

Husband.
Prithee, old Woman, hold thy teazing Tongue;
Thou'rt ancient, and forget that I am young.
Would you remember, when with Beauty arm'd,
How ev'ry Lover's kiss your Fancy warm'd;
How brisk and gay, how frolicksome you were,
When youthful, pleasant, forward, kind, and fair;
What subtle Arts you've us'd to win a Spark;
And how you've wish'd to meet him in the Dark;
How close you kiss'd; what Pleasures you have stole;
And what strange Things he did to charm your Soul;
How you first nibbl'd at the tempting Hook,
In spite of all the Care your Mother took;
How you thought this the sweetest Man alive;
Yet would, next day, some new Intrigue contrive;
What Vows, with Reservations, you have made;
How many you have lov'd; what Fools betray'd:
How oft you wrong'd your Husband in your Youth;
What Lies you told, yet vow'd them to be Truth;
What Stratagems you form'd; what strange Fatigues
You run thro', to accomplish your Intrigues;
What plausible Excuses you would coin,
To cheat the Fool, and manage your Design.
Would you but recollect such Things as these,
And think on all your past Enormities,
You would not then so great a Wonder make
At all those youthful Liberties I take;
But say, my Dear, I own it is no more,
Than I my self, when young, have done before.

Wife.
O wicked Man! to harbour such a Thought!
What , do you think I, in my Youth, was naught?
O fie! my Dear, such Censure only shews,
The wicked Muse of others, as they use.

Husband.
Prithee, I know you're made of Female Mold,
Am'rous when young, and penitent when old;
Therefore I'll leave you to your Pray'rs and Tears,
Fit Recreations for your rev'rend Years.
But I from Tavern must to Tavern strole,
Where sparkling Wine revives my drooping Soul;
And Boon-Companions o'er the Bottle meet,
To chear the Heart, and exercise their Wit.
Therefore, old Grannum, let us thus agree;
I'll drink for you, and you shall pray for me.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[What Youth of either Sex, whilst warm]

Dialogue XXIX. Between an old, prodigal, new-sworn Constable and his young noisy Wife, concerning his Power and Authority.

Husband.
Wife hold your Tongue, your noisy Nonsense cease,
Take Notice, Huzzy, I command the Peace;
By Vertue of this Staff, whereon you see
The painted Arms of pow'rful Majesty,
Altho' a Man, I represent the Queen;
'Tis true, you prating Minx, for all you grin;
Therefore, when, with an awful Voice, I say,
Do this, you ought to Court'sey and obey.

Wife.
Marry-come-up, you represent the Queen!
You doating Ass, pray tell me but wherein,
Take care you are not whipp'd from Gate to Gate,
For talking Treason at so vile a Rate,
It happens well there is no other by,
To hear you prate so like a Fool, but I,
You're a fine Fellow, with that Roman Nose,
Between a wrinkl'd Pair of Lanthorn Jaws,
Anatomiz'd by Age, to Skin and Bone,
To represent a Queen upon the Throne;
Besides, you silly Oaf, what Man alive
Can be a Woman's Representative,
Tho', I confess, your Kindness is so rare,
I scarce remember which o'th' two you are;
Yet, I am sure, 'tis Impudence in you
To talk of Queens as you presume to do.

Husband.
Huzzy, I say, what I assert is right,
And more than that, I'm Monarch of the Night,
Can Stop, Command, Examine, Loll in ease,
And, like a King, Imprison whom I please;
Exert my Sov'reign Pow'r as Cause appears,
And Nod, attended by my Halberteers.
There's Honour for a Wife, to Bed in State
With such a high and mighty Magistrate;
For tho' I govern by the Staff I bear,
Yet you are Madam Constable, my Dear.

Wife.
I must confess, to warm your wither'd Hide
Is a great Honour to your younger Bride,
Much Joy and Credit to a Wife redounds,
From such a Skinful of disabl'd Bones;
The gouty Leader of a scabby Crew
Of louzy tatter'd Scrubs, you know not who,
Arm'd with long Staves, because the bearded Rout
Are too infirm and lame to walk without;
Old, frowzy, croaking Sots, who live and feed
On Brandy, foggy Ale, and stinking Weed,
And smell as Rank, within your Parish-Hut,
As an old hunted Fox, or stable Goat;
A Train as fit as you could well desire,
To guard their Monarch by his Watch-house Fire,
Who Nods and Slumbers in your Elbow-Chair,
Till waken'd with the Call of, Who comes there?
Then in, before your Staff, perhaps, is brought
Some stroling Slut, or inoffensive Sot,
Who wanting Coin to give your Watch a Fee,
To Cage or Counter must committed be,
That the next Day you may have some pretence
To fleece 'em, tho' they're guiltless of Offence:
Your midnight Majesty, that does these things,
Much Honour home to me, your Consort, brings;
I must have much Felicity, besure,
In sleeping at the Back of so much Pow'r,
So full of Belch, Pride, Vanity, and Wind,
That ev'ry Night you break the Peace behind,
Disturb my Rest from Twelve a Clock to Four,
As if your A---se had learn'd to croak the Hour:
I therefore wish it was your Worship's Fate,
To Nod much oft'ner in your Chair of State,
For I must own I always sleep the best,
When you're abroad disturbing others rest.

Husband.
You prating Huzzy, I should serve you right,
To put you in the Stocks, but that 'tis Night.
How dare you give me one provoking Word?
I'd have you know, I can commit a Lord;
Therefore you'd best to regulate your Tongue,
That wicked Member that's so loosely hung,
Or when I'm angry I shall make you see,
What 'tis to aggravate Authority.
I ought to keep the Peace where e'er I come,
Not only thro' the Parish, but at home,
And how, alas, should I preserve the same,
If aw'd by th'Clamour of my noisy Dame?
No, you pert Huzzy, you shall see, e're long,
I'll find a way to stop your noisy Tongue,
Or by this Staff, which in my hand I hold,
I'll have you Coram Nobis for a Scold,
And then how like a shame fac'd whining Fool,
You'll look, when leading to the Ducking Stool.

Wife.
You have me Coram Nob, you ugly Dog;
You lead me to be duck'd, you lousy Rogue;
You have me punish'd for a Scold, you Brute;
When is't I Quarrel, Wrangle or Dispute?
Sirrah, 'tis your ill Tongue begins the Strife,
The Neighbours know that I'm a patient Wife,
An honest Woman, you provoking Owl,
Too good for you, for all you're Constable,
Jack in a Parish-Office, proud to be
The Scum of troublesome Authority,
Pleas'd with a painted Staff, advanc'd to fright
Vagrants by Day, and drunken Sots by Night;
But don't you think my inoffensive Tongue
Shall truckle to your Short one, or your Long,
I have no Cause to fear a painted Stick,
I nothing say but what a Wife should speak,
And what an honest Husband ought to hear
For all he's climb'd into his Elbow Chair;
Therefore I'll talk what's proper to a Fool,
In spite of painted Staff or Ducking-Stool;
I'll not be call'd a Scold, I know I'm none,
But since your self this diff'rence has begun,
I'll make you eat your Words before I've done.

Husband.
You silly angry Wasp, I meant no hurt,
I only Jested for a little Sport,
Tho' some would think that now you Scold and Rave,
I know its nothing but a way you have;
Suppose you were a noisy Scold indeed,
As bad as Gammar Douse, or Mother Reed,
And I had pow'r to duck you, by my Life,
I'd scorn to so misuse so good a Wife;
Why should not Woman, when she's vex'd, be free
To vent her Mind sometimes as well as we?
For Men have Failings, very great ones too,
Nor can I boast that I have less than you.
However, you should now consider, Love,
That I'm a Magistrate, a Man above
The common Rank, and you should therefore be
Obedient now to my Authority;
Do as I bid you, mind whate'er I say,
'Twill be your own, my Dear, another day.

Wife.
What a Rout's here about a nasty Office,
Daily conferr'd on ev'ry whiffling Novice;
Besides you're but Jack-hold-my-staff at best,
Hir'd by a wiser Man, that loves his Rest,
Who scorns to leave a Wife that's young and fair,
To nod at Midnight in a wooden Chair,
And quit the pleasures of his Nuptial Bed,
To be a louzy Rabble's brainless Head.
The surly Leader of a croaking Train
Of Rogues, beneath the Dignity of Men,
Scoundrels, to Infamy and Baseness bent,
Who make more Mischief than you all prevent;
Therefore you'd need be proud of such a Post,
And of your upright painted Bauble boast;
A Staff by which the Poor are oft opprest,
And fits a busie Coxcomb's Hand the best,
But I'll not stoop or yield one Jot the more,
For your tall Gugaw, I defy your Pow'r,
And dare advance, for th'Honour of the Coif,
The handle of my Broom against your Staff;
And if you further vex me, fairly try
Whose Weapon is of most Authority.

Husband.
Prithee, my Dear, don't let us Jest so long
Till we fall out, for that would quite be wrong;
My Duty is to quell all rising Jars,
And not to aggravate Domestick Wars;
Therefore, I beg you, let our Discords cease,
I'm bound, I tell you, to preserve the Peace:
For many Nuptial Quarrels have arose,
From Jest to Earnest, and from Words to Blows;
I vow I'm sorry if I spoke amiss,
I did not think it would have grown to this.
Come, come, let's have a Kiss, that always ends
The Feuds 'twixt Man and Wife, and makes them Friends.
Well, that was kind, I hate to see thee frown;
Now all is over, prithee, lends my Gown,
'Tis late, I to the Watch-house must repair,
It's past Eleven a Clock, good Night my Dear.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[The Man that's troubl'd with a Wife]

Dialogue XXX. Between the forgiving Husband, and the penitent Adulteress.

Husband.

Wife.
Forgive me, Dear, and ease a Wretch's Pain,
Thou best of Husbands, and the best of Men.
O! let my Tears and Penitence attone
For the sad Ills I have so rashly done;
Pity the Sorrows of a sinful Breast,
Loaded with Grief, too great to be exprest.
'Tis true, I have been faithless and unkind,
Deaf to good Counsel, to my Duty blind,
Perverse, unruly, to my Ruin prone,
Forgetful of your Honour, and my own:
But, could unfeign'd Repentance re-obtain
Your Nuptial Love, and wash away my Stain,
From this sad Hour I would my Life renew,
Abhor the Guilt, in Pray'rs devoutly true
Implore the Mercy of good Heav'n and you.

Husband.
O! that frail Woman should such Charms possess,
Unarm'd with Vertue, and uncrown'd with Grace,
And that such Beauty should be left to stray,
For want of Prudence, to consult the Way;
But harder still, that injur'd Man should bear
Part of the Shame, who'as in the Guilt no share.
How then, Lavinia, can your Spouse forgive,
Who for your Pleasures, does such Pains receive?
Your Crime's too black, and bears too deep a Dye,
Too bad for injur'd Man to pass it by.
It's true, the Goodness which the Gods extend,
May meet your Pray'rs, their Mercy knows no End;
Nor can our Failings interrupt their Ease,
They're not disturb'd with our Enormities.
Therefore, when Mortals do their Sins repent,
Heav'n may forgive what Humane Nature can't.

Wife.
Should I capitulate at such a Time,
'Twould swell my Guilt, and aggravate my Crime.
Offenders, when they're cast, and Mercy need,
May be allow'd to pray, but not to plead.
Detected Guilt will no Disputes admit,
'Tis Favour to be suffer'd to entreat.
Therefore, since all Excuse must be forborn,
I only beg you'll give me leave to mourn;
And that my humble Sighs and Tears may move
Your Pity, tho' I've forfeited your Love.

Husband.
'Tis true, the Guilty have no other way
To obtain Mercy, but to weep and pray.
Sorrow's the best Return that can be paid,
Where Restitution is not to be made:
Yet Show'rs of Tears, alas! are but a small
Attonement for a Crime so capital,
Whose sad Effects the injur'd Breast must feel,
As long as Mem'ry can survive the I'll.
Such monst'rous Crimes whole Families torment,
Beyond Forgiveness of the Penitent.
Who then can pardon an Offence so great,
Which Time cannot repair, or Man forget?
An ignominious Blot, that stains so home,
'Twill blacken Generations still to come;
Make your own Children, when they chance to hear
Their Mother's Failings grate upon their Ear;
Dissolve their Duty, doubt their lawful Birth,
And curse the vicious Womb that brought 'em forth.
What Husband then can smother an Offence
Attended with such dreadful Consequence?

Wife.

Husband.
What Pow'r has faithless Beauty in her Tears?
How Guilt withdraws, when Penitence appears?
You know, Lavinia, once I lov'd you well,
Nor has your Crimes yet chang'd my Heart to Steel;
I cannot hear you so much Grief express,
But still must pity your Unhappiness:
I own, Lavinia; I'm a little mov'd
To ease that Heart I once so dearly lov'd.
Could I forget, methinks I could forgive;
But Crimes like yours, will still unbury'd live;
In the most patient Bosom knawing lie,
And, like the Worm of Conscience, never die.

Wife.
My dearest Husband, O! thou God-like Man,
Could you one Thought of Pardon entertain,
My Love, Obedience, and my pious Life,
Should shew I was become so good a Wife;
That, by my future Penitence, I'd blast
The odious Mem'ry of my Follies past;
Perform my Duty with such humbie Care,
That not one Action of my Life should err;
So that we both should bless the happy Time
Your Goodness pardon'd, O! my hated Crime;
My chaste Deportment, should in Time persuade
Your peaceful Breast, that I have never stray'd.
Thus the deep Sense of my Misfortunes past,
Shall make me always Kind, and always Chaste.
But if your Heart be harden'd, and your Ears
Are deaf to my repenting Cries and Tears;
If so severe, O! miserable me!
I'm lost, and must for ever wretched be.

Husband.
Such heav'nly Promises, and such a Flood
Of falling Tears, are not to be withstood:
Such penitential Drops of liquid Gems,
More rich than Pearl on Princes Diadems,
Must bribe a Soul so lenitive as mine,
And make my Heart more sorrowful than thine.
My dear Lavinia, you have charm'd my Breast,
Forc'd me to yield to ev'ry soft Request,
The Vows that flow from your melodious Tongue,
Compel me to forgive the greatest Wrong.
Who can such kind and mournful Accents hear
From so much Beauty, and be still severe?
What dire Revenge upon the worst Offence,
Is able to withstand such Penitence?
Tho' thy past Liberties deserve my Scorn,
I cannot, without Pity, hear thee mourn.
I must forgive thee.—From the Ground arise,
Comfort thy Breast, and dry thy flowing Eyes;
And let the future Conduct of thy Life
Shew thee a thankful and obedient Wife:
For Crimes repeated after Pardon given,
Deserve from Man no Mercy, or from Heav'n.

Wife.

Husband.
Like your sweet Looks, your Promises are fair:
But still such Charms as yours must have a Care;
Depend not on your Strength, 'tis Grace alone
Must guard you, if attack'd, from being won.
Woman, by Nature, subject is to change,
Too eas'ly tempted, and inclin'd to range;
Therefore, by humble Pray'rs, make Heav'n your friend,
Without, no Vertue can itself defend.
The Gods alone must guard you from the Fate
That does so oft on female Beauty wait:
Implore their Aid, your Follies past lament,
And I'll forgive and love, tho' I repent:
For how can Man, that seeks Revenge below,
Of Heav'n ask Mercy, if he none will show?

Wife.
O pious Man! how greatly am I bless'd,
To hear such Love and Lenity express'd,
When the base Wrongs, which now I truly mourn,
Deserve no less than Infamy and Scorn?
Had your Resentments your Compassion sowr'd,
And your Revenge your Vertues over-power'd,
How wretched had I been, involv'd in all
The Mis'ries that could curse a Woman's Fall?
But since, O gen'rous Suff'rer, thou hast sav'd
A sinful Wife, polluted and deprav'd,
With all Abhorrence I my Crimes abjure,
And date my happy Life from this good Hour;
Will, for the future, Vertue's Paths pursue,
And prove for ever just to Heaven and you.

Husband.
Tho' your unhappy Crimes my Love have crost,
'Tis pity so much Beauty should be lost.
I must be kind to thy repenting Charms,
And hug my dear Lavinia in my Arms.
All that I now can ask, is, that you'll prove
Futurely faithful, to reward my Love;
Therefore be good and just, that I may see
Forgiveness mends beyond Severity.

Wife.
The gen'rous Pity you have thus bestow'd,
Inspires my humble Soul with all that's good.
After such Mercy, I can ne'er offend
So kind a Husband, and so true a Friend;
But shall my Thoughts and Actions strictly bind,
To Vertue's happy Rules, that you shall find
Your Pardon, to the Comfort of our Lives,
Has made a worthless Wretch, the best of Wives.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[How happy is that God-like Man]

Dialogue XXXI. Between a rich Sea Captain and his young beautiful buxom Lady after six Months Marriage.

Wife.
You say you Love me, and admire my Charms,
And place your greatest Blessings in my Arms;
Why will you triumph then o'er Love and Ease,
T'embrace the Dangers of the doubtful Seas,
And leave me in my tender years, to mourn
Your Absence, and despair of your Return,
Forsake what you avow you most esteem,
To pile up Riches to a vain extreme.

Husband.
My Love, dear Child, I cannot but assert,
I own your Charms ride Adm'ral o'er my Heart,
'Tis for your sake that I expose my Life,
If I survive you'll be the happier Wife;
Wealth is the only sure Support that bears
From human Life the weight of Marriage Cares,
Which else might crush our Fondness now we're wed,
And spoil the Pleasures of our nuptial Bed;
For Love and Friendship, tho' confirm'd for years,
Always withdraw when Poverty appears.

Wife.
Were we in danger that approaching Want
Should cool our Love, your Argument I'd grant;
But you have Wealth enough to live at ease,
And may on Shore be happy if you please:
Nor was the Fortune which my Father paid
Too small to keep me, had I liv'd a Maid;
I had no Cause to change my Virgin State
T'indulge my Pride, and to appear more Great,
I'd all the Comforts of a Maiden Life,
Before I knew what 'twas to be a Wife:
I marry'd not for Riches, but to prove,
By sweet experience, the Delights of Love:
And now the pleasing Secret I have known,
'Tis hard I should be left to Sigh alone.

Husband.
Consider, Love, the Wars have been my Friend,
All I possess have on the Seas been gain'd;
And since my Country, who have giv'n me Bread,
Approve my Service, and require my Aid,
It must be deem'd Ingratitude to slight
The Nations Welfare for a Wife's delight:
Such tame uxorious Folly would appear
The Effects of dastard Jealousy and Fear;
As if the Charms that grac'd your blooming Youth,
Caus'd me, when absent, to distrust your Truth;
Or that I had postpon'd, to my disgrace,
The Publick Safety to a Wife's Embrace.
No, no, when Fame does in the Front appear,
Love should be always posted in the Rear.
I own I place much Happiness in you,
Yet cannot bid the jarring Seas adieu,
My Ship's the older Mistress of the two.

Wife.
Had I, alas, foreseen my youthful Charms,
Could not have fix'd you to my tender Arms,
But that you would have taken still more Pride
In your sham Kingdom, than a faithful Bride,
And in a wand'ring Castle spent your Life,
Instead of Anch'ring with a steadfast Wife,
He should have only joy'd in my Embrace,
Who'd lov'd me better, and his Honour less;
For I'm too young and airy to approve
Of fruitless Absence, or Platonick Love.

Husband.
Absence renews the Matrimonial Bond,
And makes the happy Nuptial Pair more fond;
It tries how far they're truly just and kind,
And proves the Strength and Vertues of the Mind,
Doubles their am'rous Ardour when they meet,
Comforts their days, and makes their Lives more sweet.
So the sharp Winter, tho' it seems severe,
It makes the soothing Spring more gay appear:
Thus after Cold less sharper Air seems warm,
And a fresh Gale a Calm behind a Storm.

Wife.
But I, my Dear, am Amorous and Young,
My Appetite's too keen to fast so long,
I cannot starve my Love, six Months at least,
On the bare Promise of a doubtful Feast;
For should my Vertue conquer my Desires
And bear the want of what my Youth requires,
You may return disabl'd from the Wars
Crippl'd with wounds, and maim'd with Honour's scars,
Then what amends can your poor Wife expect
For her long Patience, under cold neglect.

Husband.
Your Modesty that Question might have spar'd,
For Vertue always is its own Reward.
A Wife is bound in Duty to be Just,
She's infamous that breaks her Nuptial Trust,
'Tis her own Safety to be Chaste and Good,
She's always wretched from the time she's lewd:
Nor will the absence of her Spouse excuse
Th'adult'rous Freedoms that a Wife shall use;
There's no Condition in the Nuptial tye,
To favour Woman if she treads awry,
Tho' she for absent years lives unembrac'd,
The solemn Vow should still preserve her chaste.

Wife.
But he that steps into a marry'd Life,
Should forsake all to cleave unto his Wife;
And not like you prefer a hostile Chase
Of Honour to her kind and soft Embrace.
If you, when no Necessity requires,
Leave me alone to please your vain Desires,
'Tis you that first the Marriage Vow transgress,
And, by your Absence, tempt me to be base:
I am not safe, of Nuptial Joys debar'd,
A Husband's Presence is a Woman's Guard;
I'm Young, and in your Absence cannot tell,
How far (alas) Temptation may prevail.
A youthful Bride forsaken in her Bloom,
Will be attack'd, and may be overcome;
Meer pity will excite the young and kind,
To storm her Vertue and inflame her Mind;
And what fair she, unguarded in her Prime,
Can stand the warm Assaults of Love and Time?
Stay you at Home, and that's the only way
To make a Wife, Love, Honour, and Obey;
Then free from Fears and Dangers, shall I be,
Happy in you, and you secure in me;
But if to rove the Seas you're rashly bent,
I know not what may prove the cross Event;
Long absence may a youthful Bride provoke,
And strong Resolves be in a Moment broke.

Husband.
Methinks, my Dear, you are too plain and free,
Your Tongue exceeds the bounds of Modesty.
If now you're wed your Vertue proves so weak,
You cannot bear my Absence, lest you break
Your solemn Vow of Wedlock, to fulfil
The craving warmth of your Salacious Will;
You give me Reasons to believe from thence,
I ne'er embrac'd your Virgin Innocence,
But that you first impos'd upon my Bed,
Th'experienc'd Charms of a polluted Maid;
For if when single you could bear Restraint,
'Tis strange your Vertue should be now so faint:
If you could then resist a Man's Embrace,
Why in my Absence must you needs transgress,
Since now you know, what you before must be
Inclin'd to taste, thro' meer Curiosity.

Wife.
Had I ne'er known the Bliss I find so great,
But still continu'd in my Virgin State,
I should have been content without the Joy,
For those that never drink are ne'er adry,
Nor did I ever Sin to basely know
The pleasures that from Man's embraces flow;
You are the only he, by mighty Jove,
That ever gave me the delights of Love;
My Virgin Blush in your embrace was lost,
No Arms but yours that Happiness can boast,
Nor do I say, if from my Breast you fly,
That some new Rival shall your place supply;
Nor durst I on my Female strength depend,
The stoutest Vertue may by chance offend;
Especially should your Affections stray,
Or your long Absence clear the pleasing way,
For she that's ne'er so Coy may be betray'd
By strong Attacks, if opportunely made;
For Woman, tho' well fortify'd within,
Yet Love has Bombs to fire her Magazine;
And tho' in her Defence she's ne'er so warm,
She may be won by Treachery or Storm.

Husband.

Wife.
My Dear, since I to my Affliction find,
No Female Arts can change your steady Mind,
But that I'm doom'd to so severe a Fate,
As to live Single in a Nuptial State,
Believe me, 'twas my Love, and nothing more,
Made me implore your Residence on Shore,
And take the freedom to alarm your Breast,
With what my Youth and Innocence detest;
In hopes thereby to make you quit the Seas,
And, free from Danger, live at Home in Ease;
That you may truly know how much I love,
And what a kind, obedient Wife I'd prove:
But since no Female Threats will awe your Soul,
Or soft Entreaties your Resolves controul,
Pray be assur'd, no Distance shall abate
My Love, or tempt me to those Ills I hate:
I have to Vertue all my Life been bred,
Both Fear and Scorn to stain my Nuptial-Bed.
Sin I abhor, and dread the impious Shame
That waits on Female Lust, that odious flame:
Nor should the Indies win me, or a Throne,
To prostitute those Charms you've made your own;
Therefore, believe me, whilst on Seas you dwell,
Fix'd as the Northern-Star by which you Sail,
And that no human Pow'r shall e'er remove
My Thoughts from you, my only Orb of Love:
Pious I'll live, and Constant will I be,
With heav'nly Thoughts I'll charm the raging Sea,
Pray for your safe Return, and hope you'll think of me.

Husband.
These Resolutions from so kind a Wife,
Revive my Soul, and crown my happy Life.
Be Chaste at Home, and I'll Abroad be Brave,
And thou the Honour of my Deeds shalt have.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Whoever takes into his Arms]

Dialogue XXXII. Between an old Country Couple, in the Winter of their Age, concerning the Disobedience of their Children, &c.

Husband.
Here take away the Beef and Cale,
And fill the Goblet full of Ale;
Bring me my Pipe, sit down, my Dear,
And draw thy Wicker-Chair more near;
Lay on another Block or two,
I'm cold, and so, I fear, are you.

Wife.
I am not over warm, be sure;
Jug, prithee shut the Parlour-Door;
We're in the Winter of our Age,
And sliding off this worldly Stage;
Our frozen Nerves, alas, require
Good Liquor, and a thawing Fire,
That may our icy Clay revive,
And make us know that we're alive,
Else, we but sleep our Time away,
Like Insects in a Winter's Day.

Husband.
Thou'rt in the right, I must allow,
We're but Memento Mori's now,
Mere walking Skeletons, to shew
What Youth, in time, must come unto:
Despis'd by all the young and gay,
Who fleer and scoff at our Decay;
Slighted by Children of our own,
Who think 'tis time that we were gone,
That they might waste, in worldly Pleasure,
What thee and I have scrap'd together.

Wife.
Therefore, since we're become the Scorn
Of those who of my Womb were born,
And that they wish us in the Grave,
For the small Riches which we have,
'Tis time that we take care, my Dear,
To be each others Comforter;
And that we wisely keep our Store,
Now past our Labour, in our Pow'r,
And not relinquish what's our own,
To gratify a craving Son,
Or Daughter, to depend, now old,
On more uncertain Friends than Gold.
No, no, hold fast your Wealth, I say,
'Tis a sure safeguard in decay:
If once you part with that, you'll find
Repentance follows close behind:
You see what Slights our Children show,
How surly and morose they grow
On all Occasions how they flout us,
Now they can scarce subsist without us:
Therefore should we at once resign
To them our friendly Bags of Coin,
And on their Gratitude depend
For Raiment, Food, and all we spend,
What Usage then can we expect
But moody Frowns and cold Neglect,
Provoking Snarls and little Ease,
Amidst our weak Infirmities:
Then let's be wise in what we give,
And save, that we our selves may live
Without depending on the Aid
Of those that long have wish'd us dead.

Husband.

Wife.
The greater Reason still we have
To keep what we have toil'd to save,
That now we're Ancient we may be
Secure from helpless Poverty.
Unhappy those that do depend,
When Old, upon a Child or Friend.
'Tis hard, my Dear, we should be taught,
Now Aged, how to Eat, and what;
Rudely directed where to sit,
And caution'd how we Smoak or Spit;
Be fearful to disclose our Wants,
And teaz'd with the imperious Taunts
Of some proud Minx our Son shall wed,
Who'll think we are too nicely fed,
And ne'er be easy till we're dead.

Husband.
Therefore the way to live at ease,
And spend our aged Days in Peace,
Is still to keep what we possess
And not, by giving, make it less:
'Tis better that our Children wait
Till we are dead, for our Estate,
Than that we should resign the same,
And then turn Pensioners to them.
Whilst in our Hands we keep the Staff,
And they depend on us, we're safe,
Our own paternal Love we know
Is great, and will continue so;
But filial Duty in a Son
Is not to be rely'd upon;
Age may be fond of Youth, we see,
But Youth with Age, can ne'er agree:
When e'er they buckle and obey,
Or humour us in what we say,
They only seemingly comply,
In hopes, at last, to gain thereby,
And coax and flatter us, for fear
We should bestow our Wealth elsewhere:
Therefore 'tis fit our Brood depends
On us, who are their faithful Friends;
Not we on them, who only want
To gain what we have Pow'r to grant,
Which if we part with whilst we're living,
They'll make us soon repent our giving.

Wife.
Children, we know, affect their Pleasure,
And sooth their Parents for their Treasure:
But who can blame 'em, since we find,
That all are to the same inclin'd;
Money, we see, commands the Great,
The Wisest nibble at the Bait;
Yet, tho' 'tis lov'd by Young and Old,
For Pleasure still they barter Gold,
And, by their Lives, let others see
The World is all but Vanity:
Therefore since Money bears the sway,
And all Delights its Pow'r obey,
Let us, whilst we have Life, take care
To save enough, that we may bear
Our Charges to our Journey's end,
Without the help of Child or Friend;
For wretched must those Parents be,
Who feel the smart of Poverty,
And for Subsistance must rely
Upon their Childrens Charity.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[No Parent is oblig'd to starve]