University of Virginia Library

II. The Second Volume.

DIALOGUE I. Between a Great Man Sentenc'd to the Scaffold, and his Vertuous Lady at their last parting.

Lord.
Good Heav'n support thee in this flood of Grief,
And give thy Breast some adequate Relief,
Comfort thy Soul, in thinking we e're long
Shall meet above, where none can do us wrong:
Consider all Mankind must stoop to Fate,
We're bound to pass the Adamantine Gate.
No Prince one Moment is secure of Breath,
All are born Subjects to that Tyrant Death.
'Tis but a Journey in a lowring Day,
Made tiresome by the badness of the Way,
I'm only riding Post to that long home,
Where all, in spite of Pow'r and Wealth, must come
Why therefore should you thus in Silence mourn?
You soon may follow, tho' I can't return.
What! tho' I'm hurry'd to the Grave, depend
You'll once o'ertake me at my Journey's end.
Correct your Female Passions that disguise
Your Prudence, and inflame those beauteous Eyes:
Exert your Patience and your Silence break,
'Twill ease your swelling Sorrows if you speak.
Besides, such briny Show'rs encrease the Storm,
And do my Soul of all its Pow'r disarm;
Weaken those Resolutions that defy
The stroke of Death, when he's advanc'd so nigh;
Make me unable to despise a Life
That's blest with such a kind and vertuous Wife.

Lady.
O! help me, Heaven, in this sad distress,
What can I say, or how my Grief express?
Who can such cruel Enemies forgive?
What Wife sustain so great a Loss and live?
Pardon my Sorrows, give me leave to mourn,
Betwixt Revenge and Love I'm rack'd and torn.
O! tender Husband, O! insatiate Foes,
To sacrifice your Life and my repose.
What shall I do, that may prolong your Breath?
How shall I snatch you from the Jaws of Death?
O! that good Heav'n would hear my humble Pray'rs,
And lengthen this sad Day to joyful Years,
Or by some speedy Miracle declare,
Its just abhorrence of the Wrongs we bear.
With-hold the Blow, postpone the fatal Hour,
And stop the Cruelty of Human Pow'r.

Lord.

Lady.

Lord.

Lady.

Lord.
I fear not Death, or the dividing Steel,
My Care for you is all the weight I feel;
Whilst the kind Couple Nuptial Love retain,
One cannot Grieve but t'other shares the Pain.
I therefore beg your Tears may be forborn,
It melts my Soul to see such Goodness mourn,
Subdues that Christian Courage which should arm
A Breast that's sinking in so black a Storm.
He who to please a King in publick dies,
Should the grim Ghost and all his Stings despise.
Consider, Dear, 'tis Cowardice to pine,
Or flinch at what superior Foes enjoin:
Too much Concern is the effect of Fear,
The Brave should slight the Wrongs they're forc'd to bear:
He that scorns humane Pity, and is free
To suffer, disappoints his Enemy.
Therefore, 'tis better boldly to embrace
Our Fate, than to ask Mercy with Disgrace.
Then cease your Tears, and let the Pow'rful see,
We've Patience equal to their Cruelty,
And with a Christian Temper can sustain
The worst Results of so severe a Reign.
The Brave, the Just, the Gen'rous and the Great
Should with a Breast undaunted meet their Fate,
Sedately suffer what they can't oppose,
And shew their Vertues greater than their Woes.

Lady.
Grief against Reason, will, alas, rebel;
In spite of Precepts Nature will prevail:
I must lament my Loss to an Extream,
And suit my Sorrows to my high esteem,
Your cruel Fate my Conflicts must improve,
In due proportion to my tender Love.
A Flood of undissembl'd Tears best shews,
How much we value what we fear to lose.
Who then can cease to weep away her Hours,
Depriv'd at once of all that she adores;
Left in a wretched Kingdom to become
The Scorn of those who have conspir'd your Doom:
O! let my Passions rend my trembling Heart,
And Female Grief its utmost Pow'rs exert,
Till my Valves burst, and every Vein supplies
With sanguinary Tears my flowing Eyes;
Thus all Relief from my sad Breast exclude,
And melt at once into a briny Flood.

Lord.
I can no longer hear you thus deplore
Your own Misfortunes and my fatal Hour.
The sullen Moment now approaches near,
That hurries me, alas, I know not where:
Unweary'd Time flies from me now apace,
Who brandishes his Scythe and shakes his Glass.
For my sad Journey I must now prepare,
And manage my last Stake of Life with Care.
Farewel thou best of Wives; and must I say,
For Ever, that's a long eternal Day.
It cannot be, I'm sure, 'tis all Deceit,
Comfort thy self, that we again shall meet
Above the Clouds, where endless Joys abound,
And nothing but eternal Love goes round.
My Dear, be happy in this parting Kiss,
Our next Salute will be in Paradise:
Indulge your dearest Babes, forgive your Foes,
Strengthen your Vertues and your Mind compose:
Let Pray'r and Praise your pious Soul imploy,
And Heav'n will change your Mourning into Joy.
Once more, thou Glory of thy Sex farewel.
What Tongue the Torments of my Breast can tell!
In Death I only now can easy be.
God be the Guardian of thy Babes and thee.

Lady.
O! ease me, Heaven, in this sad distress,
What Pow'r but thine can make my Sorrows less?
Alas, for Ever, O! that dreadful Sound
Does ev'ry Vein with Bolts of Thunder wound,
Where is my Lord, my Husband, and my Friend?
On whom for Comfort must I now depend?
How can you go? Return to my Relief,
Leave me not drowning in a Sea of Grief.
Alas! he's fled for ever from my sight,
And my Hopes vanish into Horror's Night.
Come, King of Terrors, with your ghastly Train,
Strike home, and ease a wretched Woman's Pain;
Release my strugling Breath without delay,
By Life imprison'd in this worthless Clay,
That to the solemn Stage my Soul may fly,
And, with my Dear, surmount the distant Sky:
I cannot part for ever; O! I faint, I die.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[None are exempt from Death or Care]

DIALOGUE II. Between a Pious Couple, concerning the Peaceful Comforts of a Religious Life, as on a fine Day they were taking their Recreation in the pleasant Meadows.

Husband.

Wife.

Husband.
I'm pleas'd to hear the Works that Heav'n has wrought,
Inspire my Dear with such a pious Thought;
For none but those that meditate can see
The Beauty of this vast variety.
None with true Joy can on these Wonders gaze,
Unless to God they give their Thanks and Praise.
The skilful Painter that's so kind to shew
His artful Landskips, when the same we view,
'Tis Rudeness not to praise the gen'rous Hand
Whose pow'rful Pencil could such Strokes command.
How stupid then, how thankless and how base
Must those dull Wretches, among human Race,
Appear, that can behold, without a Sence
Of Gratitude, the Works of Providence,
And with a careless Freedom please the Sight,
Cherish the Soul, and feast the Appetite;
Yet, like unthinking Brutes, neglect to give,
So much as Thanks to him by whom they live,
For all those bounteous Blessings they receive!
Who that considers well how Man was form'd,
And his cold Clay by Breath eternal warm'd,
How kindly cherish'd and preserv'd when made,
How highly blest, how bountifully fed,
Plac'd above other Creatures, in a State
Divinely Happy, and supremely Great,
Fill'd and enrich'd with an immortal Soul,
And qualify'd with Reason how to rule;
Seated amidst a thousand blooming Joys,
Which nothing but our sinful Pride destroys,
Enabl'd here to feast our Minds with Peace,
In all the various Stations we possess;
Promis'd hereafter, if ourselves take care,
Eternal Life on Terms that easy are!
How wretched then must that vile Atheist be
Who can no God in all this Goodness see,
But to the Pow'r of Chance ascribes the whole,
And laughs to hear of an immortal Soul;
Thanks none but Nature for his Form and Breath,
Suffers dim Reason to exclude all Faith,
And foolishly conceits there's nothing after Death.

Wife.

Husband.

Wife.

Husband.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Honour, some think, that empty Sound]

DIALOGUE III. Between an unfortunate Nobleman and his beautiful Lady, who had surrender'd her Charms to the Caresses of her Sovereign.

Lord.
Bane of my Life, once Object of my Joys,
Who'd Pow'r to bless, but now has curs'd my Choice;
Charming in Feature, of an awful Mein,
Without an Angel, but a Dev'l within;
Beauteous but Lustful, Gen'rous not Good,
Modest in publick, but in private lewd.
What vile Asmodeus has inflam'd thy Breast?
Why so deprav'd, and with such Graces blest?
How could a Lady, so devoutly bred,
Be tempted to defile her Marriage-bed?
Why to your Husband would you prove unjust,
And shame yourself to please a Monarch's Lust?
Why would you make such Charms your Prince's Sport,
To be a false, tho' glitt'ring, Lamp at Court?
When if you'd sav'd your Honour, you had been,
Altho' a Subject, greater than a Queen;
For had such Beauty been with Vertue join'd,
Both had the Lustre of a Crown out-shin'd;
But now, alass, dark lustful Clouds arise,
Obscure your Brightness, and eclipse your Eyes.
Your odious Guilt your Female Charms debase,
Your sinful Deeds your Quality disgrace,
And cast a nauseous Mist all o'er your lovely Face.
Why, therefore, would you play such wanton Freaks,
And with adult'rous Blushes stain your Cheeks?
Why thus become a Paramour of State,
To only be more titularly Great.

Lady.
What Woman can resist a King's Amours?
Or who refuse what Majesty implores?
What Female Subject durst to disapprove?
Or give Resistance to a Monarch's Love?
What they command, our wisest Teachers say,
We're strictly bound in Duty to obey;
And if the secret Favours they exact,
Are base, unjust, and sinful in the Act,
The Sin's not ours, because we don't deny,
But theirs, whose Powr can force us to comply.
How then can I his Royal Will withstand
Who stoop'd to beg what Princes might command?
Besides, when Love, that Tyrant, has possest
A spiteful Monarch, and inflam'd his Breast,
What beauteous Object of his am'rous Grief
Would venture to deny a King Relief,
And hazard that Revenge her Slights may find,
Rather than strain her Vertue to be kind?
Woman, tho' ne'er so chaste, in such a case,
May sooth his Passion, and thro' Fear transgress,
Because in Love 'tis safer to engage,
Than run the Hazard of a Prince's Rage:
When sov'rign Pow'r attacks, we cannot fly,
The want of Courage makes the Fair comply.

Lord.
These are dark Arguments the am'rous feign,
T'excuse the lustful Habits they retain.
The faithless Wife by Nature is a Jilt,
And never wants a Plea to sooth her Guilt.
Woman debauch'd, tho' she approves the Sin,
Reflects the Blame on those that drew her in;
And tho' she seeks the Pleasure that she loves,
Would fain be thought more modest than she proves.
Had Graee and Duty influenc'd your Mind,
And your soft Youth to Vertue been inclin'd,
When once you found just Reasons to distrust,
Your Charms had fann'd the Fire of Royal Lust,
And that your Prince was eagerly design'd
To tempt you by his Flatt'ries to be kind,
You shou'd have then from Court your Smiles withdrawn
When his false Love was in its early dawn;
For 'tis a Maxim that does seldom miss,
Remove the Cause, and the Effect will cease.
Instead of that, forgetful of the Shame,
You fann'd his Lust, and glory'd in his Flame,
With equal Passion met his warm Embrace,
And turn'd upon him in his am'rous Chase,
Stop'd his Pursuit, receiv'd him in your Arms,
And bid the Monarch welcome to your Charms.

Lady.
When Woman finds she must at last comply,
'Tis better early to be free than shy:
A Gen'rous Freedom to a Gen'rous Mind,
Shews Love instead of Int'rest makes us kind,
Doubles a Prince's Passion by Surprise,
And makes his Bounty equal to his Joys;
When she that's conquer'd by a seeming Force,
And when she rises counterfeits Remorse,
Thinks by false Tears t'extenuate her Guilt,
Loses her Aim, and for the Drops she'as spilt,
Is always constru'd but the greater Jilt.
Suppose, to shew my Vertue, I had fled
From Court, and had despis'd a Monarch's Bed,
Shewn my Resentment of his lawless Flame,
If a King's Love deserves so bad a Name;
Such Provocations might have work'd a Change,
And turn'd his Passion into dire Revenge;
Th'Effect of such a pow'rful Lovers Wrath,
Might still have prov'd more fatal to us both;
For she who wins a Monarch by her Charms,
And flies his Presence to escape his Arms,
Be she a beauteous Virgin or a Wife,
Conspires against his Ease, if not his Life;
And should a Husband's Counsel be the Cause
That the King's Fav'rite from his Court withdraws,
The slighted Monarch, full of Love and Rage,
May bring them both upon the fatal Stage;
For Kings, whose Love does into Fury change,
Ne'er want a Plot to satiate their Revenge:
Therefore 'twas Prudence rather to submit,
Than run the Risque of an obscure Retreat;
And better far for you to be content,
Than clamour at those Wrongs you can't prevent.
Who would not such a small Affront disdain,
Sooner than grin, and shew his Teeth in vain,
Forget the Pleasures of his Nuptial Bed,
And lose a Wife much rather than his Head.
Reflect not on my Failings, but desist,
And of two Evils wisely chuse the least.

Lord.

Lady.
Thank ye, my Lord, 'tis nobly wish'd, I'll swear,
But Heav'ns too good to hear so vile a Pray'r:
I thank my Stars I now am plac'd above
The Fury of your poor revengeful Love.
I have a Monarch now to stand my Friend,
And you had best take care how you offend.
Farewel, I owe no Duty now to you,
What you deem shameful I shall still pursue,
And will obey my Prince, superior of the two.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[How can a vicious Husband blame]

DIALOGUE IV. Between a Dethron'd Prince and his Disconsolate Princess.

Prince.
Who that is wise would covet to be Great,
A Sphere twixt Envy and the frowns of Fate.
Where Storms arise and sudden Thunders rowl,
And with tremendous Claps surprise the Soul?
What real Blessings could we call our own,
When perch'd aloft upon a tott'ring Throne,
Built on the Pleasure of a fickle Crowd,
Too fawning, or too insolent and Proud;
Resty if spurr'd; when check'd, too fast would run;
Slow to their Good, in haste to be undone.
Why should we then thus grieve beneath our Loss?
With Joy the Christian ought to bear his Cross;
The true Heroick Breast should ne'er repine,
Since Vertue through a Cloud does brigthest shine
The Brave undaunted should embrace their Fate,
And in the worst of Troubles still be Great.

Princess.
But Woman is, alas, too weak to bear
So vast a Load of inexpressive Care,
To fall from Empire, to forsake a Crown,
And fly the awful Grandeur of a Throne,
That our proud Rivals undisturb'd might wear
Those Glories we have only Right to share.
No Female Breast is able to sustain
So deep a Stab, but she must feel the Pain:
No Balsam heal, tho' skilfully apply'd,
A Wound so mortal to a Woman's Pride!
Who can with Patience bear the Loss of Pow'r?
If once a King, 'tis wretched to be low'r.
Tameness when injur'd makes a Prince a Slave,
Without Revenge no Suff'rer can be Brave.
Nor is he fit to make a Crown his own,
Who will not hazard, e're he's quite undone,
A despicable Life to save a Throne.

Prince.
But if a Prince be flatter'd and betray'd,
And, without Cause, unjustly odious made,
Left naked when the Storm begins to low'r,
By Friends forsaken, and disarm'd of Pow'r,
Invaded by a Rival, at a time
When all the Land thought Loyalty a Crime,
Girt round with Foes, deserted in the Field,
Threaten'd by Crowds that ev'ry where rebell'd,
How should a King, in these Distresses left,
Robb'd of his Wealth, and of his Arms bereft,
Maintain his Ground, and with Success oppose
Domestick Rebels join'd with Foreign Foes?
What Lyon can defend his awful Beard
From Scoffs and Insults, with his Talons par'd?
At such a time 'tis better far to shun
Impending Fate, than into Danger run.
'Tis brave and wise to make a safe Retreat,
When if we fight, we know we must be beat.

Princess.
But you had Arms sufficient to have try'd,
To whom good Heav'n had been the most ally'd;
For tho' some Legions to your Rival fled,
Yet Thousands, hearty to your Int'rest, staid,
And with their Blood would have manur'd the Plain,
To've sav'd your Person and prolong'd your Reign.
Why therefore did you then forsake the Field,
And to the Rebels such Advantage yield,
Fly from an Army that were free to fight,
And forward to assert your Lawful Right,
Give your Foes Reason to suspect your Fear,
And make your Friends dispirited appear:
Such Tameness did your Loyal Troops incense,
And shew'd that you despair'd of Providence,
Or what tame Prince, to've curb'd a Rival's Pride,
Would not on Heav'n for Vict'ry have rely'd.
Whose sinking Cause had Justice on its side.

Prince.
Our kind Regard to an ingrateful Land,
Soften'd our Breast, and did our Sword command,
Unwilling to inflame the growing Jars,
By vain Resistance, into bloody Wars,
Wherein our Foes would still have gain'd the Day,
And all our Loyal Friends been made their Prey:
Most of our Subjects did our Cause decline,
The major Part were in the grand Design;
Those we had trusted from our Int'rest fled,
Others stood neuter and the Danger weigh'd,
Careless of Duty would have join'd the Side
That prov'd the strongest, had the Cause been try'd.
Nor could we hope to stop our Rival's Course,
And prove Victorious by a weaker Force:
Therefore had we engag'd, and fail'd in Fight,
By Conquest then he would have claim'd a Right,
And our poor Friends, too feeble to defend
Our Crown, had all been slaughter'd in the end;
And our whole Kingdom made a Land of Slaves
To Foreign Soldiers and domestick K---s.
For such-like Reasons we, alas, withdrew,
What for our Safety better could we do,
When Foes were grown so num'rous, and our Friends so few?
Besides, no longer is a Prince secure
From pop'lar Tumults, than possest of Pow'r;
And who, when threaten'd, rashly would engage
To stand the Insults of the publick Rage,
Rather than timely make a safe Retreat,
To shun th'Effects of such a dang'rous Heat?
When scorch'd 'tis Madness to withstand the Fire,
No Mortal when he's burnt would creep the nigh'r,
But as the Flames encrease beyond their reach, retire.

Princess.
But when the Danger did at first appear,
You'd still been safe, had you been more severe;
Your Justice was, alas, too long delay'd,
And too much Lenity yourself betray'd.
When you'd first notice of your Rival's Aim,
And saw your Kingdom in a Factious Flame,
You should have then been active, and have blown
Up all around, to've sav'd your Royal Throne,
Remov'd those Snakes you'd reason to distrust,
Who'd long before been treach'rous and unjust,
Punish'd the Leaders of the Factious Rout,
And been secure of all you'd cause to doubt:
For when a Gangrene shall endanger Life,
A skilful Surgeon never spares his Knife,
But wisely knows, that to be safe and sure,
Is to prevent what's difficult to cure.
In all Contagions that are apt to spread,
The Limbs should suffer to preserve the Head;
And where the Fever's hard to be supprest,
The sharpest Means prove commonly the best.
Experience teaches, in a Case like ours,
Desp'rate Diseases should have desp'rate Cures.

Prince.

Princess.

Prince.

Princess.
'Tis good Advice, but difficult to take,
Who can forgive, and on a Throne look back?
Or think of Foes so treacherous as ours,
Without Revenge proportion'd to our Pow'rs?
However, since I find your Godlike Mind
Only to Peace and Piety inclin'd,
My Breast from Female Passions will I free,
Your Vertues shall my great Example be.
What Wife, that knows her Duty, would controul
The blest Resolves of so Divine a Soul?
But learn of such bright Excellence to live
Unmov'd by Fate, to suffer and forgive,
Disarm her Breast of its revengeful Sting,
And follow him, too Just to be a King.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[He's only brave that can sustain]

DIALOGUE V. Between a melancholy fanciful Gentleman and his merry bantering Wife.

Husband.
I'm very ill, my Dear, I find
I'm, Bladder-like, blown up with Wind;
See how I'm swell'd from Head to Foot,
As big as a Canary Butt:
Prithee, my Dear, observe my Nose,
How wonderfully large it grows;
What a huge Monster of a Head
Is my poor crazy Noddle made,
And feels as if, from Flesh and Bone,
'Twas newly chang'd to Wood or Stone.
Pray, my Dear, send for some Physician,
I find I'm in a strange Condition.

Wife.
'Tis true, you're greatly swell'd of late,
But yet, I hope, 'twill soon abate,
Unless some Spider has undone ye,
By pissing in your Sleep, upon ye,
Or else crept slily down your Throat,
When you were fast and did not know't;
Such Accidents sometimes, in spight
Of Care, may happen in the Night:
But should it prove so, I am sure
My Cordial will effect the Cure,
Here take a lusty Dram, my Dear,
'Tis a rare Antidote, I'll swear;
One Glass will carry off the Wind,
And raise a stinking Storm behind,
Reduce you, from a monstrous Stature,
To a brisk, lively, mod'rate Creature;
Bring down your Nose, so big about,
To be a pretty midling Snout;
And make your Head no bigger show,
Then 'twas an Heur or two ago.

Husband.
Then hand it quickly to my Mouth,
That it may stop my speedy Growth;
For at this rate I am afraid,
My Doors must all be wider made,
And to my great Expence and Charge,
My Beds and Chairs be made more large;
For I'm already grown a Beast,
A meer squab Elephant at least,
A huge fat Monster of a Man,
With Head like any Sarazen.

Wife.
Drink this, my Dear, 'twill mend the Matter,
And fetch down your gygantick Stature;
This single Dose, I dare maintain,
Will bring you into Shape again;
When I've been swell'd with Wind, for want
Of Vent, as big as John of Gaunt,
That I was larger I may swear,
Than well-fed Ox or Flanders-Mare,
I'd take but one refreshing Coag,
Of this Balsamick Chimagog,
And in a quarter of an Hour
'Twould expel Wind with so much Pow'r,
That ev'ry Puff at Mouth or Tail,
Would blow round any Windmil-sail,
And each Eruption roar as loud
As Clap of Thunder from a Cloud:
Thus would it carry off the Wind,
Not only upwards, but behind,
Till I became again by Tipling
This Cordial, such a slender Stripling,
That many fancy'd, by my Stature,
I only fed on Bread and Water,
To be a Pissle-wasted Creature.

Husband.
I've drank it off, and hope that I
May find like Benefit thereby;
It warms my Stomach, and revives
My Heart; O! thou'rt the best of Wives.
Methinks a Hurricane I feel
Blow thro' my Veins from Head to Heel,
And Whirlwinds in my Bowels pent,
Are striving both ways for a Vent.
Stand off, beware the Blast, my Dear,
I find a mighty Storm is near,
That will in Belch or Fizzle fly,
Upwards or downwards by and by.
O! how it rowls within like Thunder,
As if 'twould rend my Guts asunder.
Row, dow, 'tis gone, hold fast, my Dear,
What a loud dreadful Blast was there!
I greatly fear'd it might have blown
The House, or Stack of Chimneys down.
Some Evil Spirit sure possest me,
And by his hellish Pow'r opprest me;
It must be so, for do but mind
The Brimstone Scent 't has left behind.
O! how much easier I am grown,
Now this tormenting Fury's flown;
I am much better, that I am,
Wife, prithee give me t'other Dram,
Thou best of all the Female Race,
Fill't up, I'll venture t'other Glass,
Who knows but this Infernal Fiend,
That fled in such a boist'rous Wind,
Has left some evil Dregs behind.

Wife.
I know one Dose has work'd the Cure,
'Tis good, however, to be sure:
I find your Swelling's much abated,
You've now no mighty Nose or Great-head,
But from a Monster art become
Almost as little as Tom Thumb;
Your Mill-Post Legs, to me be Thanks,
Are now reduc'd to Spindle-shanks;
And your huge Belly, that was blown
To twice the bigness of a Tun,
In this short time appears to be
Not above Firkin-size to me:
I'm certain you yourself must find
Your bulky Greatness much declin'd,
And that you're growing downwards now,
Like Tail of Heifer or of Cow.
However, to compleat the Cure,
I'll venture you with one Dram more,
And that I'm certain, will relieve you,
And carr' off all the Dregs that grieve you.

Husband.
Thank you, good Wife, I must allow,
I'd been a Monster but for you,
Fit only to've been shown at Fairs,
Among Wolves, Elephants and Bears;
Or to have stood against the Wall,
Twixt Gog and Magog in Guild-hall.
But thank you, Dear, this t'other Glass
Has made my Swelling fall apace:
But should I waste all Night as fast,
As I have done this half Hour past,
I fear by th'Morning 'twould reduce
My manly Stature to a Mouse,
And that's as bad as 'tis to be
A huge gygantick Prodigy.
Methinks 'tis better to be fear'd,
With a large Head and mighty Beard,
Be gaz'd at and admir'd by all,
For being monstrous big and tall,
Than be despis'd for being small.

Wife.
I find it difficult to please ye,
You're neither full or fasting easy;
But like my Grannum's useless Kettle,
Either too big or else too little;
However, I, that had a Knack
To bring so huge a Monster back,
From b'ing the Wonder of our Eyes,
To be a Man of a dapper size,
Will find out some effectual Dose,
To stop your dwindling to a Mouse,
'Twould be a Scandal to myself
To have you run from Shelf to Shelf,
Or live i'th' corner of my Cupboard,
I'd rather you should be a Lubbard,
A huge unwieldy Fellow, fit
For nothing but to lie or sit.
I should abhor to have a Spouse
Run squeaking up and down the House,
A Pigmy, lesser than a Rat,
That would not dare to face a Cat,
But, if Puss Evans should appear,
Skulk into Holes I know not where.
No, no, I have a new Invention,
To stop so scurvy a Declension,
I'll twenty pretty ways devise,
To keep you up to humane Size,
Before I'll let you backwards grow,
To such a Pigmy Bedfellow;
I like a comely midling Spouse,
Between a Monster and a Mouse,
And you shall find that such a one
Ill make of you, before I've done.

Husband.
Thank you, good Wife, but see how fast
Each withering Limb begins to waste,
My very Hands are fall'n away,
How will you stop this swift Decay;
My Arms are dwindl'd into Straws,
My Fingers into Sparrows Claws;
Into Sheep-shanks my Legs are grown,
Alas, I scarce can stand alone;
My Belly's gone I know not whither,
My Body's but a Kex or Feather.
O! help me now, my Dear, I pray do,
For I'm quite wasted to a Shadow,
A perfect Ghost, enough to fright
All that should meet me in the Night:
I am meer Air: keep close, I pray,
The Door, or I shall fly away;
I'm turning to an empty Nothing,
That has no Substance but my Cloathing;
Therefore, my Dear, I pray be speedy
In your Assistance, now I need ye,
Or I'm afraid I soon shall be
Changed to a strange Non-entity,
And wanting your kind Application,
By wasting, suffer Annih''lation.

Wife.
Consid'ring how profusely great
Your monstrous Body was of late,
How broad your Platter-Face was grown,
And what a Nose you had thereon,
I cannot but confess and say,
I think you're strangely fall'n away;
So an Ox-Bladder ty'd and blown,
Till to the full Extent 'tis grown,
Looks plump till we discharge the Wind,
And then the skinny Bag we find
To nothing shrinks that's left behind.
However, don't despair of Cure,
My Physick's speedy, safe and sure;
By downright Kitchen Application,
I'll stop your further Declination;
I've something o'er the Fire below,
Will plump you up and make you grow
As fat, as lively, brisk and gay
As you have been this many-a-day:
Be patient, it shall soon be here,
I'll step and fetch it up, my Dear,
'Twill prove at once both Food and Physick,
And will cure any Man that is sick.

Husband.

Wife.
Here's that, my Love, will strengthen Nature,
And make you quite another Creature:
Fall to and eat this fat young Capon,
Well boil'd, with butter'd Sprouts and Bacon,
'Tis th'only thing a learn'd Physician
Prescribes to those in your Condition:
'Twill plump your Veins and make you grow
In Flesh, whether you will or no,
Exalt your Spirits and relieve you,
In spite of all the Ills that grieve you.
How white it looks, how fine it cuts,
See how the lushious Gravy spouts;
Here take this lovely Wing and Liver,
There's Greens, and here's a charming Sliver:
Of Hampshire Bacon, fat and lean,
So finely streak'd, so red within,
That 'tis sufficient to invite
The nicest sickly Appetite,
To eat a Pound of 't at a Meal,
Altho' the Patient's ne'er so ill.
Well done, my Dear, I'm glad to see
A sick Man feed so heartily;
It is a Sign of speedy Health,
As Av'rice seems to promise Wealth:
And still the more you eat and faster,
The sooner your Disease you'll master.

Husband.
Indeed, my Dear, 'tis very good,
This serves for Physick and for Food,
Does not alone the Palate please.
But fights and conquers the Disease,
And gives you present Demonstration,
'Tis double in its Operation.
I find already I'm much better,
Each Mouthful makes me grow the fatter.
Ah! Wife, thou art my only Blessing,
A Comfort far beyond expressing;
Thy Kitchen-Physick much exceeds
The Juice of nasty Drugs and Weeds,
For ev'ry Bit that now I swallow,
Makes me more fleshy and less hollow.
See how my Legs and Arms begin
To plump, that were before so lean!
And how my Face, that was no more
Than a Deaths-Head but just before,
Is now with Substance cover'd o'er.

Wifes.
Here's a fine Leg, pray do but view it,
Take t'other Slice of Hampshire to it;
One Spoonful more of Greens, my Dear,
Eat freely, Love, and never fear,
I'd have you pick it while it's warm,
I ne'er advise you to your harm,
I know you like a Bit by th' by,
That's hot and hot, as well as I.

Husband.
I vow, my Dear, what you have put on
My Plate's enough to serve a Glutton.
I fear that I shall thrive with eating
At this rate, faster than 'tis fitting,
And grow, by dint of Food, once more,
As big a Monster as before.

Wife.
Ne'er fear it, Love, but fill thy Belly,
And when you've eat enough I'll tell ye,
I've a small Dose to give you a'ter,
That I'll engage, shall stint your Stature:
I'll stop the Swelling of your Waste,
And ev'ry Part that grows too fast.
Your thriving Nose shall prove no more
Too monstrous for your Parlor-door,
I've Dazy-Roots, first bruis'd and boil'd,
And Cordials from the same distill'd,
Which, if administer'd in Season,
Will stop your growing out of reason,
That no fine Beau, that cups and sweats,
And thrice a Week at Gaming frets,
Shall to the charming Ladies shew
A finer Shape, my Dear, than you.

Husband.
And have you such a wond'rous Art,
Thou only Comfort of my Heart,
Then I'll eat t'other Wing, I'll swear,
And Leg too, if you please, my Dear;
For by my pidling and my picking
This lovely Fowl, this tender Chicken,
I find in Belly, Limbs, and Face,
I gather Flesh and Strength apace.

Wife.

Husband.
Thank you, my Dear, for all your Care:
Your Health,—'tis very good I'll swear;
It warms my Stomach, and I find
By this same Belch, it brings up Wind,
And has already made me fit
To venture on another Bit.
Well, Wife, thou'rt qualify'd to be
Doct'ress t' a Prince, as well as me.
Thy Physick may be eas'ly taken,
What Pills can equal Fowl and Bacon?
Or what Physician's Cordial save me,
When sick, like what you just now gave me?
I vow, my Dear, I must desire
The other Glass, but fill it high'r;
For, I protest, you cannot think,
How much I mend, each Cup I drink.

Wife.
I would not have you be too busy,
For fear its Fumes should make you dizzy:
You that within this Hour were drawn
To a poor thin-jaw'd Skeleton,
Whose Bones were worn so very bare,
Your Ribs, like Rack-staves did appear,
And your Head only fit to grace
A Church-yard-gate, or such-like Place;
Or to stand grinning on a Glass,
That tells us how our Minutes pass,
I say, altho' you look much better,
And are become a Span new Creature;
Yet, in regard you've lately been
So sick, so ghastly and so lean,
Be careful after so much eating,
You drink no more than what is fitting,
Lest your Consumption, by your tipling,
Should once more waste you to a Stripling.

Husband.
I thank you for your Care and Caution,
I know 'tis for my Health's Promotion;
Yet one kind Bumper would impart
New Life and Comfort up my Heart,
Make me as brisk, I dare to say,
As Roger on his Wedding-Day.
But I shall faint, my Dear, I vow,
Unless you give it me just now.
You see, alas, I droop apace,
Only for want of t'other Glass.
O! Dear, I sicker grow and sicker,
Good Food, I find, requires good Liquor.
Nay, fill it higher, for my Heart
Is sick enough to drink a Quart.

Wife.
Here, take a Bumper, for I doubt
You will relapse indeed without.
I hope your Conscience will allow
You've had a dose sufficient now.
I'll swear, considering how ill
You've been, you've a rare swallow still.
Believe me, Honey, since you sicken'd,
Your Brain, I find, is not much weaken'd,
You've a rare Constitution really,
You drink your Liquor off as freely
As if you were not marr'd but mended
By all the Sickness you pretended.
So breeding Women, who complain
Of qualmish Sickness, and of Pain,
When once the Groaning Bout is o'er,
Are better than they were before.

Husband.
Ah! Wife, I'm now a new-born Creature;
This Glass has made me ten times better.
I'm warm and well, upon my Word,
As brisk and lively as a Bird:
Had I but Pinions, I could fly;
I'm now, methinks, all Life and Joy;
I'm grown as strong as any Sampson,
And plump and juicy as a Damson;
This Night, I'm certain, I shall prove,
When we're abed, all over Love:
I'll swear Im strenuous, lusty, strong,
Brisk, boyish, amorous and young,
And were we now between the Sheets,
I could, methinks do wond'rous Feats.
I ne'er was better in my Life,
This 'tis to have so kind a Wife;
I owe it all to thee, my Joy,
But I'll reward thee by and by.

Wife.
It is enough for me to hear
You're grown so very brisk, my Dear;
I'm glad I've lengthen'd out your Span,
And made you such a vig'rous Man:
I hope there's no ill Relicts in you,
But that your Health may long continue.
However, since your Heart's so light,
And you are in so good a plight,
Take t'other Glass of Cordial Red,
To crown your Supper, so to Bed;
For tho' my Physick's safe and sure,
Tis Rest that must confirm the Cure;
For all Distempers of the Brain,
For want of Rest, return again,

Husband.
Dear Wife, this Cordial Red of yours
Is worth a thousand other Cures;
It is so sprightly and so charming,
So comfortable and so warming,
That I could drink, at least, a Quart,
I'm sure, and do my self no hurt:
Other Physicians Drams are loathsome,
But thine, my Jewel, are so toothsome,
And trickle down one's Throat so purely,
That I could drink thy Doses hourly.
The Doctor's Cordial he compounds
Of stinking Herbs and Barrel-Grounds,
Made sweet by Syrups and Molossos,
Boil'd up by Galen's Virtuoso's;
But the kind Cordial thou hast given,
Drinks like the very Dew of Heaven.
It runs through ev'ry Vein, I feel,
And tickles me from Head to Heel
Gives warmth and pleasure to my Brain,
And makes me something more than Man.
Ah! Wife, when we're in Bed you'll find,
This Red will make me wond'rous kind.
I'm grown a perfect Boy again,
I've Youth, I find, in ev'ry Vein,
And shall, my Dear, this Night repay
All your past Kindness of the Day.

Wife.

Husband.

Wife.
My Dear, your talking gives me Proof,
That you've already had enough;
Your promis'd Bravery, alas!
Proceeds from nothing but the Glass.
The flowing Cup, you took but now,
Has made you talk I know not how;
And should you drink once more as full,
You'd roar like any Parson's Bull,
And prove so gamesome, that you'd be
Too vig'rous and too brisk for me.
However, if you'll walk up Stairs,
Undress, and when you've said your Pray'rs,
Just as you step to bed, I'll give you
Another Bumper to revive you,
And then, no doubt of't, but you'll prove,
A perfect Hercules in Love,
And do such mighty am'rous Feats,
Ne'er done before between the Sheets

Husband.
A Match, my Dear, let's go this Minute,
And hug and kiss till this day Sennight,
For I can feel I am already
A fit Gallant for any Lady;
And t'other Glass, upon my Word,
Will make me smuggl'ye like a Lord.
Remember your Agreement, pray,
A Bumper after Pray'rs, you say,
Come, lend's your Hand, and lead me up,
Ah! Child, 'twill be a glorious Cup,
'Twill make me sleep so purely a'ter,
That I shall need no Poppy-Water.

Wife.
[Aside.]

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[If Beauty, for the sake of Wealth]

DIALOGUE VI. Between a Salacious Monarch, and his Barren Consort.

Consort.
Why, my good Liege, will you debase your Throne,
And with ignoble Stains defile your Crown?
Why tarnish all the Glories of your Reign,
And let your Headstrong Lust your Laws prophane?
Why in such Pomp and Equipage support
Such Crowds of Harlots to disgrace your Court,
And, in their Grandeur, let your Kingdom see,
How much you value them, how little me?

Monarch.
Who'd be a Monarch that must reign in fear
His Fav'rites should in publick Pomp appear?
Let the Saints grin, and Faction roar aloud,
Kings are above the Scandal of the Croud,
What if we're am'rous, and to Love inclin'd,
Monarchs should suit their Pleasures to their Mind;
With Honours load those Beauties they adore,
And sanctify their Vices by their Pow'r:
Grandeur gives every thing a charming Face,
We ought to favour those that we embrace;
For Wealth and Title do the Kind protect
From publick Scandal, and command Respect.
When those are wanting, then the gen'rous Dame,
When e'er she's known to sin, must blush for shame,
Whilst her Grace passes in her stately Coach,
From one stale Pleasure to a new Debauch,
And brazens Envy, fearless of Reproach.

Consort.
But you too many Prostitutes approve,
And are too lib'ral of your Royal Love,
Lavish your Treasure to indulge your Sins,
And starve your Friends t'enrich your Concubines,
Such that are drawn from Playhouses and Stews,
Of Mold too base for such a Prince's use,
Meer Wantons, who can boast but slender Charms,
And those defil'd, long since, by others Arms:
Nor are they constant now to your Embrace,
At least suspected to be false and base:
Why therefore should you thus at large impart
Your Royal Favours, where there's no Desert?

Monarch.
We value not so much the Face or Mein,
But love those Merits that are most unseen,
Which ne'er are boasted by the Female Race,
But when they're search'd for in the proper place;
Nor ever shewn but when the Fair exert
Their Love, and then each condescending part
Takes Pains to prove they're Women of Desert.
Such, Madam, are the Ladies we admire,
Who find new joyful Arts to quench Desire,
And have a thousand Charms to Queens unknown,
Worthy of his Embrace that rules a Throne:
What tho' the Mold be coarse, the Surface mean,
Poor Earth sometimes contains rich Mines within,
Treasures unknown, that may reward the Toil
Of only him that digs the charming Soil;
Besides, tho' Woman cannot boast her Birth,
Or vainly glory in her Parents worth,
Yet Kings, by Honour, can refine her Blood,
And make her Noble, tho' she's ne'er so sewd:
'Tis all a Jest, the diff'rence is so small
'Twixt City Dames and Ladies at White-hall,
That thro' our whole Experience, we protest,
We ne'er could tell whose Honour is the best.

Consort
You're now, my Liege, too jocular and free,
Such droll'ry derogates from Majesty,
My Birth and Station will not let me hear
Such Talk, I humbly beg you to forbear;
I only crave the freedom to report
What Whispers I have heard around your Court,
That your whole Kingdom is inflam'd to see
Their Prince indulg'd in Vice and Luxury;
Disturb'd to find your Treasure vainly spent,
Design'd to serve the Ends of Government,
T'enrich your craving Harlots, and advance
The Pride of a young Wanton sent from France,
Whilst your poor Friends of your Neglects complain;
And hover daily round your Throne in vain.

Monarch.

Consort.

Monarch.
Monarchs are Gods on Earth, ally'd to Heaven,
And ought not to have Rules by Subjects given,
Are born to govern, have a Right to chuse
Those Pleasures they are most inclin'd to use;
Such that are sinful in the servile Croud,
And only to their sov'reign Lords allow'd,
Who cannot Err, but when they circumvent
The genuine Ends of lawful Government:
'Tis Insolence in Subjects to controul
The Freedoms of a Prince that Rules the whole,
In them 'tis petty Treason to reflect;
Upon those secret Joys their Kings affect.
Nor have they Cause to murmur or complain,
If happy in their Monarch's peaceful Reign,
Whilst with due Conduct he maintains his Trust,
In him they're blest, and ought to think him Just.
His private Failings, that alone relate
To his own Pleasures, not the Publick State,
Are Mysteries too daring and too dark,
For Subjects, Slaves, or Servants to remark,
They should lie hid from such inferior Eyes,
Nor should they be expos'd to Factious Spies,
But left to Heaven's Justice, who alone
Has Right to censure those that Rule a Throne.

Consort.
But you, my Liege, so publickly expose
Your carnal Pleasures to your factious Foes,
That, without prying, they may see too plain
Those obvious Errors that disgrace your Reign;
The Prostitutes you favour are enough,
Their costly Grandeur are sufficient Proof,
That you indulge those Lusts you should subdue,
And teach your am'rous Court to do so too;
Therefore since you to Love are so inclin'd,
And in your Harlots Arms such Pleasures find,
That rather than discard them and reclaim,
You'll chuse to suffer in your Royal Fame,
Methinks, it would become your Princely Care,
To keep your Joys more private than they are,
And not in publick Splendor thus support
A Crew of Wantons to degrade your Court.
Princes, like Cloister'd Priests, should hide their Sins,
And, in the Dark, embrace their Concubines:
Not let their Friends or Fav'rites know what Nights
They set apart for their obscene Delights,
And by those Badges which their Harlots wear,
Let the World see whose Prostitutes they are.
When Kings debauch, they should the Curtain draw,
And ne'er be seen to sin against the Law,
Lest their indecent Freedoms should entice
His flatt'ring Court to imitate his Vice,
Who always practise what their Prince pursues,
Or rail at Freedoms that they scorn to use.

Monarch.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[We ought in Modesty to spare]

DIALOGUE VII. Between the surly Drunkard and the inflexible Termagant.

Wife.
So, you old Sot, is this an Hour
To be heard Rapping at your Door?
Must all the Neighbours break their Rest,
To humour you, you drunken Beast?
Is't not a Shame, at Twelve a Clock,
To raise me starving in my Smock?
Well may I Cough, you ugly Cur,
Like an old Grannum of Fourscore,
When I'm thus forc'd to come down barefoot,
From my warm Bed, to the cold Stair-foot.

Husband.
You maund'ring Devil, hold your Tongue,
Next time I'll tarry all Night long,
If you can't ope the Door without
All this confounded noisy Rout:
What's that to you, how long I stay,
My Time's my own, by Night or Day,
And as I please, I'll always use it,
When I've a fancy for't, abuse it;
Therefore go up to Bed, I bid you,
Lest something worse than Words betide you,
For you shall get more good by holding
Your Rattle, than by all your Scolding.

Wife.

Husband.
Thou teazing Hag, did I begin,
Did you not raving let me in?
Hussy, I find no Lye will choak ye,
What did I say to first provoke ye?
But 'tis your way to disagree,
And then to lay the Blame on me,
The Scold thinks always 'tis her Right,
To first begin the verbal Fight,
Then charges, when her Tongue grows weary,
The Fault upon her Adversary.

Wife.
'Tis false, you Hedgehog, did you not,
First Swear, and call me God knows what?
Accuse me of a thousand Failings,
Provoke my Passion with your Railings,
Tell me of this and t'other Blade,
As if I'd been an arrant Jade,
Foh! you old drunken fumbling Sot,
That only hugs the Pipe and Pot.
I'd have you know, tho' you're so jealous,
I scorn your little nasty Fellows.
I'd find, were I inclin'd that way,
Other guess Sparks than you or they;
Such that would scorn I should appear
In that I now am forc'd to wear,
But would be glad to let me go
In my Lac'd-Shoes and Furbelo.
I've had good Proffers in my Time,
(The more Fool I to scorn the Crime,)
From handsome Men, that lov'd me too,
Who would have kinder prov'd than you:
And rather than endure this Sorrow,
You Sot, I'll horn your Brows to Morrow.

Husband.
The Devil's in the Woman sure,
What Slave can such a Tongue endure?
Nounds! Jealous of thy Beauty's Splendor,
More ugly than the Witch of Endor;
A scolding Harridan, that's near
Her despicable Forti'th Year,
Whose Hatchet Face has not a Feature
But's mark'd with Envy and ill-nature;
An arrant Slut, a wrangling Beast,
Whose Tongue cannot a Moment rest,
A hopeful Hag, I must agree,
T'inspire a Man with Jealousie.
Did I say any thing to shew
My doubt of such a frightful Shrew,
Or scatter any words distrustful,
About your being Lewd or Lustful,
Reflect upon your Sparks or Fellows,
Or madly talk of being Jealous?
Faith, my dear Dowdy, thou'rt mistaken,
Thy Skin's too much like rusty Bacon,
Too rancid and too old to be
Fancy'd by any Fool but me.

Wife.
You Lye, you feeble Drone, you do,
I'm handsom, young, kind-natur'd too,
Too good for such a Rogue as you.
I might have had, I'll make't appear,
A Man of Twenty Pounds a Year,
And like a Lady liv'd, before
I marry'd you, you dirty Cur;
And could have since, had I been willing,
Earn'd many a Crown, and many a Shilling;
Nay, Guineas, I might say, that's more,
And yet not tell a Lye, I'm sure;
But, Rogue, I scorn to play the Whore;
Yet if you plague me thus, you Brute,
It is enough to make me do't;
For a good Woman may, by Passion,
Be drove beyond her Inclination;
Revenge may make a Vertuous Wife
Do what she ne'er did in her Life,
And cause her, when ill us'd, to doat on
Some other Man she never thought on;
Therefore, you fumbling Sot, take care,
When drunk, you vex me not too far,
For if you put me in a Rage,
You Sot, I'll horn you in your Age.

Husband.
Nouns, go to Bed, you noisy Fool,
Your Scut, by this time, may be cool;
You've a great Heat upon you, sure,
To talk thus in your Smock, an Hour:
Just now you quarrell'd 'cause 'twas late,
But you can still find time to prate.
Get you to Bed, you teazing Witch,
And warm you, now you've cool'd your Britch,
Stand not here talking, till you frieze,
O'th' Beauty of your ugly Phiz,
At such a Midnight-Hour as this.
I think 'tis time, you scolding Beast,
Your Tongue and you were both at rest.

Wife.
I scold! What is it I have said?
Tell me I scold, I'll break your Head.
What a provoking Sot is this,
To say I've spoke one Word amiss!
Sirrah, have you not swore and ly'd,
And falsly told me of my Pride,
Accus'd my Innocence with Crimes,
And call'd me Whore a thousand times;
And must I stand, as if 'twas truth,
Mute, with my Fingers in my Mouth?
No, grinning Ape, you hooping Owl,
I'll not be such a silent Fool:
That's what you want, I know, to make me,
But first I'll see you hang'd, Gad take me.

Husband.
You bawling, noisy Witch, who calls you
Whore? why, what the Devil ails you?
Thou'rt very honest, that I know,
Thy Ugliness has kept thee so;
Thy Vertue has been much beholding
To thy Face, Temper, and thy Scolding:
From the Horn-plague I am secure,
But curs'd with all the rest I'm sure;
Such so tormenting and perplexing,
So irritating and so vexing,
That would make any Mortal fly
From such a barren Beast, but I.

Wife.
'Tis your own Fault, you Villain, no Man,
But you would thus abuse a Woman.
I'll bear with such Affronts no longer,
I'll try, you Rascal, who's the stronger.
Take that, you Rogue,—O! Murder, Murder,
I'll make you keep your Tongue in order.

Husband.
Be quiet, Hussy, are you mad,
Let go my Hair, you cursed Jade.
What! do you scratch me too, you Witch,
Take that, you bold rebellious B---

Wife.
O Murder! Dog, I'll make you feel me.
Help, Neighbours, or the Rogue will kill me.
O help!—I'll fight whilst I have Life.
Ah! cow'rdly Whelp, to strike a Wife.

Husband.
Confound your Claws, must I sit still,
You Beast, and let you have your Will?
Must I submit to such a Shrew,
To have my Eyes torn out by you,
And to be lug'd from out my Chair,
With all your Fury, by the Hair?
Did you not first, with Tooth and Tallon,
Draw Blood, e'er I began to fall on?

Wife.
O! wicked Wretch, to falsly say,
Alas! that I began the Fray,
Did you not kick me, like a Dog,
And call me barren Beast, you Rogue?
A Word that no ill-natur'd Looby
Wou'd give a Wife, but you, you Booby.
Did you not strike me, like a Villain,
Upon the Breast, enough to kill one?
O! how it does both throb and smart,
It pains me to the very Heart:
F'r ought I know I am ruin'd by't,
I shall not sleep one Wink to Night.
O! how my belly pains me too,
I've a Kick somewhere I shall rue;
Your Knee or Foot has hurt me, Sirrah,
Where you'll repent it by to Morrow.

Husband.
Thou lying Devil of a Wife,
I never kick'd thee in my Life;
But if I stay much longer here,
Thou wilt provoke me to't, I fear;
Thy Tongue will but engage me further,
And then, perhaps, there may be Murther:
So good Night, Beldam, I'll to Bed,
With my scratch'd Face and broken Head;
Those honourable Nuptial Scars,
And leave thee, now we've done our Wars,
To cool thy Passion and thy A*se

Wife by herself.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[When a join'd Couple live at strife]

DIALOGUE VIII. Between King Avery, the Pirate, and his Indian Prineess at Madagascar.

King.
How fares my charming Dear? why al-la-mort?
Your Grief diffuses Sadness thro' my Court.
Am I not Grateful, Generous, and Kind?
What secret Cause of Sorrow do you find?
Have you not Crowds of list'ning Slaves to wait
Your Call, and Guards t'attend you at your Gate?
Is not your Table, as becomes your Birth,
Spread with the richest Products of the Earth?
Are not your publick Robes, or private Dress,
Fit to adorn that Beauty you possess?
Have not your Princely Arms a sprightly Boy,
To dearly hug, and crown your Nuptial Joy?
Are you not Partner in a Royal Throne,
Made, by my Toils and Fortitude, our own?
Are you not fix'd in Power, safe in Love,
Obey'd and homag'd wheresoe'er you move?
What causeless Doubts can then your Soul ensnare.
And cloud your Princely Thoughts with groundless Care.

Princess.
All you have nam'd I own that I possess,
But still might be more happy had I less.
What tho', by your Consent, I share a Throne,
I'm still a Prisoner in a Land unknown?
Fetter'd amidst the Pomps and Joys of Life,
And but a Slave, although a lawful Wife;
A Captive, forc'd by Danger to comply
With what my Female Fears durst not deny;
Debar'd of Friends, and from my Native Soil
Chain'd for my Life, within a barb'rous Isle.
How then can I subsist without remorse,
Since all my Joys are the effects of Force?
Or how, without gross Flattery, applaud
A doubtful State that's founded upon Fraud.

King.

Princess.
I'm bound to love and honour you, I own,
For all the gentle Favours you have shown,
And that you waited my Consent to wed,
When in your Pow'r to force me to your Bed;
It was a great and gen'rous Act to save
A Princess Honour, when your Captive Slave,
A Deed of humane Mercy, that will crown
The greatest Glories that your Sword has won,
A kind Forbearance, that in time will make
Your Fame more bright, your Pyracies less black,
And for those rash Severities atone,
That in your bold Adventures must be shown;
For lawless Acts of Violence cannot be
Successful, but by Blood and Cruelty:
But still, tho' you were mild, and wav'd that Pow'r.
Which chains the Captive to the Conqueror,
And kindly took me as your lawful Wife,
To save my Honour, dearer than my Life,
Yet amidst all my Comforts must I mourn,
To think I'm thus become my Country's Scorn,
And that for ever I must live constrain'd,
A banish'd Stranger to my native Land;
Woman's to Fondness prone, and cannot take
A final Farewel, but she must look back.
The Eagle, tho' he wanders in his Flight,
And labours to out-soar the God of Light,
Yet when he's tir'd, he turns his drooping Head
T'wards the tall Rocks, where he at first was bred,
With eager haste does homewards gladly fly,
Perches aloft, and claps his Wings for Joy.
The wand'ring Tides, that flood the neighb'ring Grounds,
Return again into their native Bounds;
The very Stars still circle in the Sphere
Where the bright Lamps first constituted were:
The Needle points to its beloved North,
The very Brute affects his Place of Birth;
All Creatures are by Nature prompt to love
The Land, that does their native Country prove,
But I, unhappy Wretch, must ne'er return,
To see the distant Shore, where I was born,
But fetter'd to a Throne, indulge Despair,
And weep away my Youth, I know not where.
So the poor Lamb, beneath the Lyon's Paw,
Tho' stroak'd and fondl'd, wishes to withdraw
Into the safer Meadows; for the Pow'r
That can protect when pleas'd, when angry can devour.

King.

Princess.
I've heard, my Liege, the Arguments you raise,
But your own Weakness your Advice betrays,
And only shews, that you desire to make
Me easy by those Rules you cannot take.
How oft have I, as lying by your Side,
Found by your Sighs your Soul dissatisfy'd?
Have I not heard you feelingly express
Your Native Country's Worth and Happiness,
Set forth the Plenty of its fertile Soil,
Extol the various Pleasures of the Isle,
Commend its Climate, magnify its Queen,
And sighing say, how blest you might have been,
Applaud the Beauty of the Charming Fair,
How kind they prove, what costly Robes they wear,
Declare the Justice of the Western Race,
What Ills they punish, and what Wrongs redress,
Approve the Laws that do the base restrain,
And tell what Vices thrive, what Vertues reign.
Thus praise the fruitful Land that gave you Birth,
As if, at least, it was a Heav'n on Earth;
Then hug me close, and sighing cry, my Dear,
I wish we were the meanest Subjects there,
Provided I once more might safely boast,
That happy Freedom I've for ever lost.

King.

Princess.

King.
What tho' I wish to see my Native Shore,
'Tis without Hopes that Blessing I implore,
My Safety does that happy Sight forbid,
The Laws of Nations my Return impede;
Therefore since thus imprison'd by the Seas
To our own Prudence we must owe our Ease,
By Patience keep our Minds from Sorrows free,
And make a Vertue of Necessity,
Look only forward, study to improve
Our mutual Happiness by mutual Love,
O'erpow'r weak Nature, learn to be Content,
And manage well our present Government,
That Fondness wave which does our Peace annoy,
And only think of what we here enjoy;
For those who much possess, and still will crave
What's needless, are but curs'd with what they have,
Then let's correct our Minds, and think no more
Of either Persian or of British Shore,
But make ourselves as happy and secure,
As distant Tyrants that despise our Pow'r,
Be proud to think we may with Conduct be
The Builders of a lasting Monarchy,
And that a Royal Issue of our own,
May long succeed in our Establish'd Throne.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

DIALOGUE IX. Between an old amorous Knight, and a young Strumpet he was drawn in to marry, just come out of Yorkshire, to take a view of the Town.

Husband.
Well, now, my Dear, I think we've spent
A Week in Love and Merriment;
In a few Days we'll e'en set forward
Our tedious Journey to the Norward,
To view your Lands, and take Possession
Of your Estate and Habitation;
And if I find the Place is airy
And healthful, we'll resolve to tarry.
New furbish up the ancient Hall,
And settle there for good and all:
You say there's Hunting, Fishing, Fowling,
And a rare spacious Green for Bowling,
Hare, Partridge, every sort of Game
About your Grounds, that I can name:
By your Account, it needs must be
A Seat of wond'rous Pleasantry.
One thing indeed I can't approve,
But that I eas'ly can remove,
Which is the Rook'ry that's about it,
I own I'd rather be without it,
I hate their hoarse ill-boding Voice,
And cannot bear their croaking Noise,
But wake when they begin to chatter,
And yawn and stretch the whole Day a'ter.

Lady.
If nothing but the Rooks displease ye,
They're soon destroy'd, to make you easy.
I wish, my Dear, that you way find
The House and Gardens suit your Mind;
And that its lonely Situation
May justly claim your Approbation:
But, truly, I am apt to fear,
When you see how it is, and where,
You'll think your Quality too great
For such a Mansion and Estate,
Because it has been farm'd by two
Or three of meaner Rank than you:
I therefore fear you'll not consent,
T'inhabit such a Tenement,
That has, for Years, to the Dishonour
Of me, that am the rightful Owner,
Been occupy'd for little Rent,
By Persons of a low Descent.

Husband.
Dear Madam, my intire Affection
For you, will conquer that Objection;
I shan't despise your Mansion-house,
'Cause farm'd by Roger and Joan Douse:
It is enough for me to love it,
That you were born there and approve it;
We must not with Contempt, look down
On Earth, 'cause trodden by the Clown;
Frown on the fruitful Vale or Plain,
Because frequented by the Swain;
Or scorn the rich and dirty Field,
That's by the sweaty Peasant till'd;
No, no, if I but like the Seat,
And find it for our Dwelling fit,
I shall not scruple or complain on't,
Because a Clown has been the Tenant;
To me, that shall not make it odious,
In case I find it but commodious.
Perhaps it may be old and tatter'd,
With stormy Winds and Weather batter'd,
The Stable-Yards been us'd to hold
Dung-heaps, which Farmers call their Gold,
Yet all such Filth may be remov'd,
And the House furbish'd and improv'd,
And if too small, be made more large,
Though I must own 'twill be a Charge;
But shall not value what I spend,
To such a satisfact'ry End,
If all will but oblige my Dear,
And make her easy when she's there;
For who that's blest with such a Creature,
So kind, so young, so fair of Feature,
Would not do any thing to shew
His Love to such a Bride as you.

Lady.
You're very kind, I must allow,
Would you be always as you're now,
But Time will change your Inclination,
And make, I fear, much Alteration;
For Beauty, once a Lover's own,
Becomes insipid when she's known,
And all her soft obliging Charms
Grow stale and rancid in his Arms:
I fear your Love, that seems so great,
Is not for me, but my Estate;
Fat Acres and full Bags engage
The most, in this ungen'rous Age;
And she that has them in her Pow'r,
May have new Courtiers ev'ry Hour:
So he that's Rich, and can defend
Himself, shall never want a Friend;
But if Misfortunes bring him low,
His Friends will be no longer so.
Had I without a Fortune been,
And my Descent obscure and mean,
Yet made the very self-same Figure,
In Dress, in Beauty, Youth, and Vigour,
I fancy then you'd scarce have thought me
Worthy o'th' Bed to which you've brought me;
For had your Bride had no Command
Of mouldy Bags and dirty Land,
For all her Charms you'd not have lik'd her,
'Twas the gilt Frame set off the Picture.
So when the Croud behold the State
And pompous Grandeur of the Great,
'Tis not their Persons that they mind,
But the long Train that come behind;
Thus think our Quality's Transcendence,
Is not in them, but their Attendance.

Husband.
But for your Charms, my Dear, I love you,
Your Beauty made me first approve you;
Twas not your Riches, but your Face,
Your Acres, but each charming Grace,
That did alone my Soul bewitch,
And rais'd my Flame to such a pitch;
I'm no such Muckworm in my Nature,
To prefer Wealth to such a Creature;
I vow I did not doat upon ye,
For your black Furlongs, or your Money;
The Gifts that dwell in ev'ry Part
Enchanted my admiring Heart:
No Blessing but yourself I wanted,
And those dear Favours you have granted:
Had you been Fortuneless, my Flame,
I'm certain, must have been the same;
I'd still paid Homage to your Beauty;
Nor could I have been blest without ye:
Such lovely Charms as you possess,
Are of themselves a Happiness:
Such Eyes no other Fortune need,
Those Looks the brightest Gold exceed,
But since your Stars, their Love to shew,
Have giv'n you Health and Beauty too,
And I am made, by your kind Choice,
The Partner of such double Joys,
Riches with Beauty, I agree,
Still heightens the Felicity;
Tho' had you not a Groat, I own
I had been blest in you alone;
For Love, like Madness, many grant,
Ne'er feels the Smart of Cold or Want,
But will, if Just, the noble Flame,
Like Gold refin'd, be still the same.

Lady.
Then you are sure you shou'd have lov'd,
In case I had no Heiress prov'd,
And that alone my Person won ye,
And not my Acres or my Money;
I must confess, could I be certain
You lov'd my Charms above my Fortune,
Such real uncorrupt Affection
Would give me wond'rous Satisfaction;
For I am apt to think, most Men
That marry, have an Eye on Gain,
And that, among your Sex, 'tis common
T'admire the Bags above the Woman.
'Tis therefore difficult for me,
To think your Generosity
So great, to've taken to your Arms
A Country Damsel for her Charms,
Had you not been assur'd before,
She'd a large Fortune in her Pow'r;
For Beauty, without Bags we find,
You men of Wisdom seldom mind,
When Gold will make the dowdy Lass,
Without the least Objection, pass.

Husband.
I vow and swear, my only Dear,
Those Charms that in your Looks appear;
Your pleasant Air, your modest Mein,
Your Prudence in each Action seen,
Your Conversation, that's so witty,
Your ev'ry thing so sweet and pretty,
Are Blessings that engage my Heart,
Your Fortune is the meanest part;
I scarce have spent one Thought about it,
I have enough, my Dear, without it,
And should have lov'd you, tho' you'd been
Unhappy, Fortuneless, and Mean,
And for your Beauty, would have made ye
My Bride, my only Dear, my Lady.

Lady.
I'm highly happy, that I find
Your Heart so generously kind,
And that your Love would be as great,
If I'd no Portion or Estate.

Husband.
All one, my Jewel, I profess
Nothing could make me love you less.
My faithful Passion is not founded
Upon your Wealth, but nobly grounded,
And will be lasting, you shall see,
In spite of all Adversity.
No sullen Clouds, that can arise,
Shall darken or eclipse our Joys:
My Love its nuptial Course shall run,
And prove as constant as the Sun;
Be lasting, just, and always free
From cold Neglect and Jealousy.

Lady.
You promise very fair, my Dear,
Yet I, alas! am apt to fear,
If my Estate should chance to prove
A Shadow, 'twould subvert your Love,
And make my Dearest look awry
Upon me with an evil Eye;
For disappointed Lovers change
Affection oft into Revenge.
So he that weds, and thinks he marries,
A mighty Fortune, and miscarries,
He does his Bride, tho' fair, despise,
Because no wealthy Bags arise.

Husband.
But this no Parallel can be
To th'present Case 'twixt you and me.
I know your Fortune's out of Doubt;
Your Lands admit of no Dispute:
I have no Reason to distrust
Your Title, for I'm sure 'tis just;
Have all the Deeds that bear Relation
To your Estate, in my Possession;
But were your Charms without that Worth
Your Writings plainly do set forth,
Yet still, my dearest Duck, my Lamb,
I'd be as loving as I am;
Your Beauty would alone prevail
With me, in case your Lands should fail:
But I'm well satisfy'd no harm
Can lurk in such a heav'nly Form;
Your Angel's Face convinces me
You are what you pretend to be;
But should your Wealth a Fiction prove,
Your Charms would still preserve my Love.

Lady.
I'm glad to hear it; for I vow
All that I'm worth's about me now:
Give me, my Dear, one kind Embrace,
And you my whole Estate possess.
With folded Arms you may, God knows,
My Lands and Tenements inclose:
I have no Bags of hoarded Gold;
No Sums of tarnish'd Coin untold;
No fruitful Grounds to please your Sight,
But what you plough'd the nuptial Night;
No Mansion-house, or Farm beside,
But you've already occupy'd;
No costly Garden for your Pleasure,
But what your self may sow at leisure:
I have no Wealth but what you see;
You have my whole Estate in me.

Husband.
I'll swear you are a merry Lady,
You banter well, whoever bred ye;
I find you only want to try
My Temper and Sincerity,
And whether that my Love's as true,
As I've aver'd it is to you.
You may jest on, but still shall find
Your Frolick cannot change my Mind:
I have too great a Passion for ye,
Than to give Ear to such a Story:
You may use twenty Whims like these,
And try me farther, if you please,
But all your Wit won't damp my Flame;
You'll ever find my Love the same.

Lady.

Husband.
How can your Tongue such Stories tell?
I'll swear you humour't mighty well.
You do't as prettily, my Dear,
As if bred up in Theatre,
Enough to make my Hopes give Way,
And my self credit what you say;
But that, alas! I know you better,
And am assur'd you're no such Creature.
You may jest on, but you forget
I've got the Deeds of your Estate;
I've all your Writings, I am safe,
Your Banter only makes me laugh.
Besides, I've had, from sev'ral Hands,
A good Account of all your Lands;
Know every Tittle of your Fortune,
What's doubtful, and what's truly certain;
To think what pretty Tales you make,
What Wit you shew, what Pains you take
To try your Husband and your Lover,
In hopes to cunningly discover
Which is most welcome to his Arms,
Your Fortune, or your youthful Charms;
But I assure you, still the latter
Is the dear Blessing I sought a'ter;
Tho' a good Dowry, I confess,
Adds something to the Happiness,
Because the richer still we be,
The more secure from Poverty.

Lady.
Dream as you please of Golden Joys,
And think you've made a wealthy Choice;
But, as I live, at last you'll find
Your Hopes all vanish into Wind;
For all those Writings you have seen,
Were only forg'd to draw you in;
And, in Reality, relate
To nothing but a feign'd Estate;
Fat Acres floating in the Air,
And mighty Sums, the Lord knows where;
A Mansion lin'd with costly Goods,
Built only in the misty Clouds;
Rich Farms and Tenements that lie
In remote Corners of the Sky,
So far behind the Light, I doubt,
Flamstead himself can't find 'em out:
And this, by all the Charms of Youth
And Beauty, I aver for Truth;
I therefore beg you'll not deceive
Your self, but what I say, believe,
And not depend on idle Fancies,
For all my Writings are Romances,
Contriv'd by cunning Heads to gain me
A Husband, able to maintain me;
And since 'twas your unhappy Lot
To be the Gudgeon to be caught,
I humbly beg you to be easy;
For if my Person will not please ye,
I have no Lands to mend the Matter,
Nor Bags to make your Bargain better.
This is the Case most truly stated,
And ev'ry Tittle I've related,
Is Truth, I swear, upon my Knees,
So now deal with me as you please.

Husband.
I am amaz'd! And can there be
So beautiful a Snake as thee?
O! Jilt, am I at last out-witted,
Betray'd, impos'd upon, and cheated;
Tempted to take a wicked, frail,
Alluring Serpent by the Tail;
And hug the Vermin that has bit
The loving Hand that cherish'd it?
How could your list'ning treach'rous Ear.
My Love, with seeming Pleasure, hear;
And your base Tongue conceal the while
The Drift of all your crafty Guile?
Had you had Gratitude or Honour,
You'd told me your Condition sooner,
And made me sensible before
Our Marriage, of your windy Dow'r,
And not have put this Trick upon me.
Why, Hussy, you have quite undone me:
My Estate's mortgag'd, I aver it,
And with your Fortune hop'd to clear it;
But now, instead of that, I'm worse
By wedding such a Female Curse,
That has more Coney-skin than Purse:
Nor are your self, you wicked Creature,
By your Deceit, a Jot the Better.

Lady.

Husband.

Lady.
Well said, my Dear, I'm now assur'd
You've a great Value for your Word,
And that my Beauty was the Bait
That tempted more than my Estate.
O! what a Passion you have for me!
How much you love me, and adore me!
Tho' disappointed of the Rents
Of my fat Lands and Tenements,
And find my Fortune is so small,
That your own Hand may cover't all,
Yet, how your am'rous Flame continues
To chear your Heart and warm your Sinews!
What due Respect! how much good Nature
You shew to your dear charming Creature!
Your pretty Phubs, your Duck, your Jewel,
Whose pow'rful Charms, had she been cruel,
Had kill'd you with their Darts out-right,
And martyr'd her enamour'd Knight.
poor Gentleman! had I not lov'd,
How fatal must my Scorn have prov'd?
But what coy Dame could take upon her
To slight so brave a Man of Honour,
And with a cross disdainful Frown,
Doom him to stab, to hang, or drown,
When his pure Love was so refin'd,
His Tongue so true, his Heart so kind,
That he despis'd ignoble Dross,
And valu'd nothing but the Lass,
For her sweet Temper, and her Beauty,
And something else above the Shoe-tie?

Husband.
O! Impudence, to thus upbraid me,
When your vile Cunning has betray'd me.
What wanton Sorc'ress have I wedded?
What Beggar hugg'd? What Strumpet bedded?
Some Shoplift, full of Tricks and Wiles,
Perhaps bred up in sweet St. Giles;
Or some expert Town-trading Quane,
Begot and nurs'd in Water-Lane,
Who has, for Years, along the Side
Of Holbourn-Ditch, and Fleet-street ply'd;
I'll swear a very hopeful Bride!
A modest pretty Lady, truly,
Kick'd from the Arms of some Town-bully,
Just piping-hot, perhaps from Stews,
As fine a Match as Man would chuse!
What a sweet Bargain have I got,
And may be pox'd, as like as not?
O! thou confounded common Witch,
If 'twan't for Shame, I'd call you B---.
Must I by your lewd Tail, be brought
To Flannel-Shirt, and Spitting-Pot?
Be gone, I say, or I shall thumb
Your Trollilols, and foot your Bum:
Bid my Man turn you out of Door;
And, Slut, if e're you own me more,
I'll cry aloud, a Whore, a Whore.

Lady.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[He that his own Defects would hide]

DIALOGUE X. Between a non-jurant Clergy man, and his contentious Lady, about taking the Oaths to the late Government.

Wife.
Why will you prove so obstinate, my Dear,
And rather chuse to starve, than yield to swear?
Why give up all the Comforts of your Life,
Expose to Want, your Children, and your Wife;
Hug your own Ruin thro' a holy Pride,
Which Int'rest calls you now to lay aside;
And common Safety, that prevailing Plea,
Justifies those who wisely do agree?
Consider, therefore, and in time comply,
You may, perhaps, on some Mistakes rely;
And then, how fatal 'twould hereafter be,
That Error should beget our Misery?
Secure the Living first you've long possest,
And then discuss the Point within your Breast;
Postpone your Conscience, till you've once comply'd,
Then if you 'gainst your self the Cause decide,
You'll find your Error on the safest Side.

Husband.
Thou talk'st, alas! like Job's unhappy Wife,
Who bid him curse the God that gave him Life;
Or like unhappy Eve, whose ill Advice
Lost Adam and herself their Paradice.
O! faithless Woman, ignorant and blind,
To prefer Plenty to a quiet Mind,
And vain Externals, that abound below,
To heav'nly Comforts that from Conscience flow.
Where does the Peace of human Life abound,
But in the pious Breast, that feels no Wound?
Who then, that knows his Duty, would controul
Th'unerring Dictates of his peaceful Soul,
For Int'rest Sake, that false mistaken Good,
That blinds the Great, and tempts the brainless Crowd?
No, Female Satan, I abhor thy Pride;
My Rule of Faith's my Conscience, that my Guide:
Nor shall I waver from so just a Cause,
That's firmly built on Heav'n's eternal Laws.
Shall I that Doctrine I have taught, explode,
To prove my self a Hypocrite of Mode;
Preach one Thing, and, by vile Example, shew
I long have taught what I confess untrue?
No, graceless Help-mate, I alone shall trust
In that kind Providence that's always just;
And not, to save my Living, shame my Life,
To please the Pride of a contentious Wife.
Well may that Priest be deem'd a Knave or Fool,
Who o'er his Conscience lets a Woman rule!

Wife.
Thousands, as just and learn'd as you, we find,
On second Thoughts, have wisely chang'd their Mind,
And when they found the doubtful Season past,
Tho' they refus'd at first, comply'd at last.
You see your Diocesan led the Way;
And why should you from his Example stray?
He's your Superiour; and since he complies,
Who is so grave, so just, so learn'd and wise,
The World will but condemn your loyal Zeal,
And think you dang'rous to the Common-weal.
Besides, you see the greatest Men conform
And all, to guard the Nation's Saviour, arm.
The wiser Priests for little David pray,
Extol his Vertues, and his Pow'r obey;
Confirm his Title to the regal Throne,
And bless good Heav'n for placing him thereon.
The Judges and the Law his Right maintain,
Allow his Edicts, and assert his Reign.
The joyful Crowd, with one united Voice,
In loud Huzza's proclaim their happy Choice.
And are not these sufficient to convince
Your squeamish Conscience, he's your lawful Prince
And that you ought to swear as others do,
To th'Pow'r that now protects both them and you;
And not oppose, thro' a pedantick Pride,
What by the major Part is justify'd;
As if you thought 'twas Justice to complain
Against that regal Pow'r the Laws maintain,
And Wisdom to be singular and vain?

Husband.
Majority is but a slender Plea;
Common Consent is not enough for me.
The greater part, we may observe, in spite
Of Heav'ns good Laws, in Wickedness unite,
And thousands daily do from Vertue stray,
To one good Man, that keeps the milky Way.
Must therefore he, who from the Crowd dissents,
To please the World, forsake his Innocence;
Trespass on Conscience, 'cause the brainless Rout
Despise its Dictates, and proceed without?
The major Part their baneful Lusts pursue,
Must he that's just, comply, and do so too?
The greater Number are by Int'rest sway'd,
And by the Hopes of worldly Wealth misled.
To cheat, revile, invent a thousand Lies,
To shame the Pious, and detract the Wise.
If by such Means they can their Ends obtain,
And make their Sins but centre in their Gain,
Must therefore he, who fears to tread awry,
Turn vile, and with the common Vogue comply?
The Great, we see, are by Ambition spurr'd;
The Knight turns Traytor, to become a Lord:
The Lawyer in an odious Cause will drudge,
To please the Court, in hopes to be a Judge.
The Priest, to serve the Times, will play his Part,
Change his old Doctrine, and the Text pervert;
Will cant, recant, and re-recant again,
For rev'rend Lawn, or to be made a Dean:
And would you also have me play the Ape,
Like Proteus, in some new, but knavish Shape:
Turn faithless Shepherd, basely to betray
My sacred Trust, and lead my Flock astray?
No, a brown Crust shall sooner be my Food,
And the cold Spring replete my Veins with Blood,
Than I'll recant what I have preach'd long since,
Or for a Living, sell my lawful Prince.

Wife.
But he you call so, has resign'd the Throne,
And now the Peoples David sits thereon.
Your Saul, thro' Fear has left you in the Lurch,
And fled for Safety to his Idol Church,
Where cunning Bald-pates compliment his Zeal,
And with Lip-salves his wounded Conscience heal;
Perswade your Monarch 'tis a glorious Thing
To live a Biggot, rather than a King;
They'll hug him close, they've made him now their ow
He's fitter for a Cloister, than a Throne,
It is in vain to hope for his Return,
His Reliques soon must bless some Roman Urn.
You may, with Safety, now he's gone, comply,
And none but Fools will think you've stept awry.
What Man, that loves himself, would be undone
For him, who to his Rival leaves his Throne;
Deserts his Subjects, when they need his Aid,
And from the publick Body steals the Head?
What Man of Sense would such a Prince adore,
And blame the Hero that has won the Pow'r?

Husband.
You quite mistake the Nature of the Case,
Your bold Reflexions are both false and base.
The People first their lawful Prince forsook,
Aided his Foes, and their Allegiance broke:
His seeming Friends those evil Projects laid,
For which the King was blam'd, and next betray'd.
They form'd each wicked Scheme, and manag'd all
That vex'd his Subjects, and procur'd his Fall:
They blow'd the Coals, and Ills that were their own,
They still reflected on the guiltless Throne:
They fill'd the Land with Jealousy and Fear,
Yet lull'd their Prince to think no Danger near:
They fed the People with a thousand Lies,
And did each Hour prepost'rous Shams devise;
Drove in malicious Wedges ev'ry Day,
Between the Throne, and those that should obey;
Fill'd the rebellious Mobs unthinking Brains
With Tales of Cravats torn, and Warming-pans;
And when the Land was ripe for their Design,
They call'd their Shadow of a Hero in,
Who promis'd fair, declar'd he came to heal
The Breaches 'twixt the King and Common-weal;
Told us the P--- should be a Perkin made,
But ne'er perform'd one Word of what he said:
And would you have me now disown my King,
For such a strange Dutch Thingum of a Thing?
No, I'll first wear my Gown, that is so black,
Till it grows grey upon my aged Back.

Wife.
Grant this be true: But when his Rival came,
Why did your injur'd Monarch prove so tame?
What made him fly, when he had Room to fight
And without Battel, abdicate his Right?
That Prince is never fit to rule a Throne,
That wants the Courage to defend his Crown.

Husband.

Wife.

Husband.
Bad is your Cause, and weakly you defend,
Begin in Folly, in Prophaneness end.
Have I so long, to little purpose, taught,
No Grace infus'd, no Truth, no Conscience wrought?
Conscience, the Sum of all we know, that's good,
All we believe, if bred as Christians shou'd:
The good Man's Pilot in a Storm or Calm,
That in all Weathers safely steers the Helm:
The inward Judge of Right or Wrong, that scorns
A golden Bribe to serve ignoble Turns:
The best Physician in the worst Disease,
That gives us good Advice, but takes no Fees:
In all Afflictions generous and kind,
Guard of our Peace, and Regent of the Mind:
And would you have me slight so good a Guide,
So true a Friend, to humour female Pride,
Despise its Dictates, when I know they're just,
And struggle with the Pow'r, I ought to trust;
Rebel against that Grace, which God has giv'n,
And fight at once with Conscience, and with Heav'n.
No, 'tis not all the Taunts a Wife can use,
Shall force Consent to what I now refuse:
No Dread of Danger, or the Fear of Want,
Make me turn Hypocrite, or Sycophant;
Bow to an Idol I shall always hate,
That a good Wife may live profusely great.
No, Lady, you shall first reduce your Pomp,
Reform your Dress, and low'r your cockling Rump;
Abate your Dainties, spin, instead of play,
And turn your Sattin into Grogram grey,
E're I'll, for sordid Gain, my Conscience smother,
And swallow Oaths repugnant to each other.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[We ought on Conscience to rely]

DIALOGUE XI. Between a handsome Money-getting Shrew, and a Husband that depends upon his Wife's Pocket.

Wife.

Husband.

Wife.
But I suppose, if I got Wealth,
By kissing some rich Cuff by Stealth,
Tho' angry, I should prove untrue t'ye,
You'd very gladly share the Booty,
And never ask which way 'twas gain'd,
Had you but what your self could spend,
So the base Coward, that's unwilling
T'assist his Friends in Ven'son-stealing,
Yet, when a Gang of merry Fellows,
That neither Prison fear, nor Gallows,
Have stoll'n a Buck to make a Feast,
He'll gladly share the horned Beast,
And eat as freely as the rest.
I think his sharing of the Prey,
Makes him as guilty full as they;
For all the World, we find, believes
Receivers are as bad as Thieves.
Therefore if I should tread awry,
And you're content to live thereby,
Altho' you seem to disapprove
Of my unjust, but gainful Love,
Yet, if you freely share with me
The Fruits of my Adultery,
From thence, I think, 'tis very plain,
That you're consenting, in the Main,
To all the Wrongs that I have done ye,
Because you snack the Purchase-Money.

Husband.

Wife.

Husband.

Wife.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Of all the Dregs of human Race]

DIALOGUE XII. Between a Town-bred Gentleman, and his Country-Bride, concerning London, which he had abandon'd for the Pleasures of a rural Life.

Lady.
Since London is a Place of such Renown,
And Crowds of well-bred Beauties grace the Town,
Which, by Report abounds with all Delights,
That can improve our Days, or bless our Nights,
How came you thus to chuse a Country Wife,
And quit such Pleasures, for a rural Life?

Husband.
The Town's a famous Lab'rinth, I agree;
But still too noisy and too lewd for me.
The Ladies all seem Angels, 'tis allow'd,
As if just dropt from some impending Cloud;
But when they're Wives, the Custom of the Place
Soon makes 'em Shrews, or tempts 'em to be base,
If chaste, they're proud, and triumph o'er our Love;
If kind and fair, they too licentious prove:
Who therefore with a dang'rous Snake would lie,
Because her Skin seems beauteous to the Eye?
Or to his nuptial Bed a Nettle bring
That knows before hand how the Weed will sting?

Lady.
But where such Numbers of the Fair delight,
With their prevailing Charms, the wand'ring Sight,
It argues much ill Nature to accuse
The whole, or that you wanted Sense to chuse.
All could not sure deserve your Disesteem,
By plunging into Vice's muddy Stream:
Those in the Paths of Vertue strictly bred,
Fear to transgress, and scorn to be misled;
But chaste and pious, whether Maid or Wife,
Are careful to preserve a modest Life.
Had you convers'd with these, you would have found
Your severe Censure had but little Ground:
But you have giv'n me Reason to suspect
You chose the Bad, and did the Good reject;
And from the vain Delights you us'd to taste
Among the Worst, judge hardly of the Best.
So those, who thro' the Fence of Vertue break,
Suspect that all the same ill Courses take;
For groundless Censures and Distrusts arise
Too often from our own Infirmities.

Husband.

Lady.
Since Town-bred Beauties are so wond'rous kind,
And to the Sports of Love so much inclin'd,
Those who enjoy their Favours, must, of Course,
Be full as wicked as the Fair, or worse,
Because they first by Flatt'ries draw them in,
And after hire 'em to repeat the Sin;
Therefore the Tempters must be more to blame,
Than those they bring to Misery and Shame.
Since you in Town were bred, 'tis well, my Dear,
If you had Grace to keep your Conscience clear;
For where the Ladies are so kind and free
And if but ask'd, so forward to agree,
'Tis hard for Man to fly their wanton Charms,
And to escape their fond bewitching Arms;
For Youth and Beauty promise such Delights,
That few are backward, when the Fair invites.
However, I despise a jealous Breast,
Or do I want to have your Faults confest:
But since the London Dames and Ladies prove
So free, so forward, and so apt to love,
Pray let your Tongue, with equal Freedom, tell
How far your Sex's Vertues ours excel;
For if the Women are so loosely given,
The Men, I fear, will make the Ballance even.

Husband.

Lady.
If for this Case alone you disagree
With the fam'd Place of your Nativity,
I'm the more happy that you chose to shun
The modish Vices of a sinful Town,
And that you'd Pow'r to fly the tempting Charms
Of Beauty, for a Country Housewife's Arms.
You make me proud, to think a rural Maid,
Born so remote, so very meanly bred,
Should be preferr'd to Ladies so refin'd,
Where Nature's Gifts with ev'ry Art are join'd,
That can adorn the Body or the Mind.
However, since you've made me thus your Bride,
My want of Charms shall be by Love supply'd:
The Duties of a Wife I'll ne'er transgress,
But make your Ease my only Happiness;
For Woman honour'd with a vertuous Spouse,
Enjoys in Wedlock all that Heav'n allows:
And she so blest, that proves perverse or base,
Thro' want of nuptial Gratitude or Grace,
Deserves to be despis'd by human Race.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Lest wretched made beyond Redress]

DIALOGUE XIII. Between a Great Commander and his Lady upon his Arrival from the Wars.

Lady.
Welcome, my Lord; thrice welcome from afar,
And from the Toils and Dangers of the War.
I'm highly blest to see my honour'd Spouse
With his fresh Lawrels blooming on his Brows.
Much Joy at Home your great Success has rais'd,
And loudly have your glorious Deeds been prais'd:
But now your Presence makes us all more glad,
And to the Court does farther Blessings add;
Not only comforts an expecting Wife,
But gives to all the Kingdom's Friends new Life.

Commander.
I joy to see my Dear, am glad to find
You're well in Person, and so pleas'd in Mind:
I hope that our Affairs domestick, stand
In the same Plight, as when I left the Land;
That nothing in my Absence has impair'd
My Honour, or reduc'd my Friends Regard:
For, those who at the Ridge of Glory aim,
Never want Envy to eclipse their Fame.

Lady.
But yours, my Lord, will all Assaults endure;
Your Greatness stands well-founded upon Pow'r,
Beyond the Reach of those who look awry,
And snarl to see your Merits rais'd so high:
None e'er aspir'd to such a Pitch as you,
But others would their Height with Envy view.
The spiteful crooked Dwarf abhors to see
A comely Stature, twice as tall as he;
Nor can he pass him, but some Fault must find
With his proud Aspect, or his Shapes behind,
Who stalks along as stately as a King,
And scarce can tell he met so mean a Thing.
So lesser Mortals, eager to aspite,
Would low'r your Height, to raise themselves the high'r;
Slight the great Actions you perform each Year,
And make the Fame you win, less bright appear;
But you, my Lord, defy their Aim, and scorn
Those barking Foes, to meaner Stations born;
With true heroick Conduct safely steer,
And neither factious Frowns or Flatt'ries fear.

Commandeo.

Lady.

Commander.

Lady.
You need not fear, their Malice they disguise
At your Approach, with outward Flatteries:
You wisely guard 'gainst those ensnaring Ills,
That lurk beneath lame Praise, and treach'rous Smiles;
You stand secure above that envious Race,
Who always fawn on those they would displace,
That those in Pow'r they mean to undermine,
May less suspect the Mischiefs they design.
But in your Absence, I am forc'd to bear
With Wrongs and Insults I can scarce declare,
Without that Warmth, wherein, I fear, you'll see
The Weakness of my Sex and Quality.

Commander.
It is ignoble Envy, to perplex,
With their provoking Tongues, the weaker Sex;
But Malice loves to shew its Teeth to those
Least able to defy the Grins of Foes;
When with Reproaches they the Wife defame,
'Tis at the Husband's Honour that they aim.
So when they level their rebellious Hate
At Kings, they shoot thro' Ministers of State.
But let me know what Stratagems they've us'd;
What Scandals rais'd, what Falsities diffus'd.
To recompence those Dangers I have run,
Those Towns I've taken, and those Vict'ries won;
Thar, by their vile Endeavours, I may see
Their wonted Gratitude to mine and me;
For 'tis the Nature of the snarling Race,
To load just Merit with the most Disgrace:
Envy looks upwards, and directs her Eyes
Always to those that do the highest rise.

Lady.
They're not content to heap a thousand Wrongs
Upon me, in your Absence, with their Tongues;
Degrade my Honour with their false Reports,
And spit their Venom o'er their Tavern-Quarts;
But by no Laws, or fear of Justice aw'd,
Disperse in Print their Calumnies abroad;
Their Pride and Malice openly display,
And tease me with fresh Scandal ev'ry Day;
With odious Lies possess the list'ning Croud,
And basely teach 'em to exclaim aloud;
When all that they alledge, themselves devise,
And only from the Dregs of Malice rise;
Nor do they mean their envious Darts alone
Should fall on me, but 'tis at you they're thrown
For when you've reap'd fresh Lawrels in the Field,
And News proclaims the thousands you have kill'd'
Then with Invectives do they fill the Town,
And pelt me most with scandalous Lampoon,
In hopes the Lies they spread, to my Disgrace,
May damp the Glories your Atchievements raise.
Thus, when the Kingdom's truest Friends are glad
At your Success, the factious Tribe grow mad,
And ballance your good Actions with my bad.
So subtle canting Knaves, who would defame
A pow'rful Foe they know not how to blame,
They blacken those in whom he most confides,
And wound the Man they fear, thro' his Companion's Sides.

Commander.

Lady.
But since Mankind in Malice so abound,
That no Man's Honour can escape a Wound,
But those in Pow'r, who stand securely high,
Must even bear the Scourge of Calumny;
Why should the daring Press be thus allow'd
To midwife Scandal to the brainless Croud,
Who to the worst misconstrue ev'ry Hint,
And will believe whate'er they read in Print,
Especially if levell'd at the Great,
Or impudently meant t'abuse the State?
What strange Invectives through the Town are spread,
And on the Tables of Sedition laid?
What odious Scandal daily bawl'd about,
To cozen and inflame the giddy Rout;
And yet no Measures taken to redress
The growing Grievance of the vitious Press,
By whose dark Labours thousands are misled,
And basely fit for any Mischief made;
Obscene Collections crowded into Sheets,
Are mouth'd by noisy Harlots thro' the Streets,
And bought by Youth, that they may feel betimes
The Force of wanton Prose, and bawdy Rhimes?
In Print Religion's banter'd thro' the Town,
The Sectaries cry'd up, the Church cry'd down;
Government slander'd by rebellious Pens,
And Bedlam-Schemes advanc'd by frantick Brains;
The common Herd made greater than their Prince,
By Arguments reviv'd, condemn'd long since;
Whole Reams of weekly Filth are cry'd aloud,
Not to amuse, but to delude the Croud,
That thro' Mistake they may misconstrue those,
Who are their Friends, to be their only Foes,
That cunning Knaves, in whom the Fools confide,
May make 'em Slaves to their fanatick Pride.
So the sly Thief, that means to do the Wrong,
Cries watch your Pockets, when amidst the Throng,
That with more Safety he his Game may play,
And unsuspected stand or slide away.
Since with these Evils, and a thousand more,
Th'unbridl'd Press torments us o'er and o'er,
Confounds the People, and the publick Peace,
As well as Ease of private Families,
'Tis strange the Laws should want sufficient Force
To stop ill Freedoms, that each Day grow worse;
Or that the learned Heads, that prop the State,
Should wink at Mischiefs that appear so great!

Commander.

Lady.
'Tis good Advice; but who can hear her Name
Bawl'd thro' the Streets by Scoundrels, to her Shame?
And as her Coach conveys her thro' the Town,
See Porters conning o'er the vile Lampoon,
And Coblers in their Stalls their Work forsake,
To read those Lies the factious Scribblers make?
Who can with Patience bear such vile Reproach,
And hear the Mob cry, pointing, That's her Coach?
What Lady so provok'd, can easy sit,
And free from Passion, to such Wrongs submit?
What's Honour, when with Toils and Hazards gain'd,
If basely suffer'd to be thus profan'd?
Or who that's raised above the Croud, can boast
Their Station, if their Fame shall thus be lost?
Who can be truly great, in War or Peace,
That wants the Pow'r to punish Wrongs, like these?
'Tis Fear of Justice makes the Croud adore?
Without Revenge, the Wealthy are but poor.
What's Grandeur, but a vain and empty Show,
If injur'd by the Frape that crawl below;
And falsely loaded, when the Vermin please,
With base Affronts, and spiteful Calumnies?
Such Greatness is with servile Patience yok'd,
That tamely fears to punish, when provok'd.
Those that climb high, should always be severe,
Or envious Mortals, in an humble Sphere,
Will scorn those aweful Pow'rs they ought to fear.

Commander.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Should those who climb the upper Sphere]

DIALOGUE XIV. Between a spend-thrift Gentleman, who had run out his Estate, and his prudent Lady, about disposing of her Jointure, to supply his farther Extravagance.

Gentleman.
The Smart of my past Follies now I feel;
'Tis Time that I my present Streights reveal,
Or Ruin to us both must soon ensue,
If at this Juncture not delay'd by you;
Therefore I hope you'll answer my Request,
And of two Evils, wisely chuse the least.

Lady.
If what you ask to both our Welfare tends,
We're jointly bound to be each other's Friends:
In such a Case, I nothing can deny;
My Duty then commands me to comply:
But if you only want me to postpone
Your Ruin, by compleating of my own,
And, by false Glosses, aim at my Consent
To things ill offer'd, and unjustly meant,
If my weak Judgment should be so surpriz'd,
I hope you'll grant me Time to be advis'd;
For Women thro' Mistake, may fear to find
Hurtful Events from what is well design'd.
But pray, my Dear, what is it you request?
Let not your Case be eloquently drest;
In all Affairs, Plain-dealing is the best.

Gentleman.
Long have I been imprudent, I confess,
Deaf to Advice, and blind to Happiness,
Till my vain Course, which I repent too late,
Has drein'd my Bags, and lavish'd my Estate;
Impair'd my Credit, swell'd my Debts too large,
For all my present Substance to discharge:
My Houses and my Lands incumber'd are
With Sums as weighty as their Worth will bear.
In short, my All is now in others Pow'r,
And with a Jayl I'm threaten'd ev'ry Hour;
Nor can I hope, 'less you, my Dear, are kind,
For better Usage, than to starve confin'd.

Lady.

Gentleman.
'Tis in your Pow'r to yield me a Supply,
And on your Goodness I alone rely;
'Less you can pity my unhappy State,
A Prison, for my Life, must be my Fate.
My past Imprudence has been great, I own;
I no Excuse can plead for what I've done:
Yet sure so good a Wife cannot refuse
Forgiveness to a poor repenting Spouse;
Or let him lose his Liberty, for want
Of a kind Boon, that's in her Pow'r to grant;
For Love and Duty bind the marry'd Pair
To share the Burthens of each other's Care,
Both are by mutual Obligations ty'd,
And should not for themselves apart provide;
But ought, without the least Reserve, to bear
Each other's Crosses, and alike should fare;
And not, like Buckets in a Well, for one
To rise, whilst t'other sinks the lower down,
What Woman, in the School of Vertue bred,
Who does the World's Reproach and Scandal dread
Can see her Husband drowning, and refuse her Aid?

Lady.

Gentleman.
To make me safe, there is no Way, but one,
And that depends on your Consent alone.
You have already div'd into my Breast;
I find I need not tell you my Request:
You know how far 'tis in your Pow'r to save
Your Spouse from what's more fatal than the Grave;
For he that does his Liberty survive,
Worse than if dead, is bury'd whilst alive,
And even wants that Comfort to foresee
When the kind Fates will end his Misery.
This will be my hard Case, lest you relent,
And by your Aid th'impending Doom prevent;
For I've no Friend but you, that can impede
The threat'ning Storm that gathers o'er my Head.
I therefore hope, my Dear, you'll not postpone
My present Safety, to consult your own
Apart from mine; but chearfully agree
To hazard all, that I once more may be
From the harsh Threats of Duns, and Bayliff's Insults free.

Lady.
Well may you be asham'd of your Request;
Tho' not declar'd, your Meaning may be guest.
However, lest I should mistake your Aim,
And censure wrong, when you deserve no Blame,
Pray, tho' you blush to tell me, let me hear
Whether you build your Hopes on what I fear;
For 'tis ill Manners, courting Lovers say,
Before the Question's ask'd, to answer Nay.

Gentleman.
I have already told you my Distress,
And all the Hardships of my present Case;
How deeply I'm involv'd, what 'tis I dread;
How wretched by my youthful Follies made:
Yet, to relieve my Wants, would you but sell
Your Jointure, my Affairs might yet do well:
With Part of that I might my Debts compound,
And in some Post lay out a thousand Pound;
Good Husband turn, and by Industry raise
The Sums I've spent a thousand foolish Ways.
Who knows how lucky the last Stake may prove,
Would you but give this Instance of your Love?
Fortune has always some good Chance in Store
For those, whose gen'rous Deeds have made 'em poor.

Lady.
And have you broach'd, at last, your kind Intent?
I guest before what all your Stam'ring meant.
If you've one Grain of Justice in your Breast,
Well may you blush at such a base Request;
Which, if I granted, we the worse should fare,
And both be made more wretched than we are.
You've lop'd already ev'ry Branch and Shoot,
And now that's spent, you're aiming at the Root.
Was not my Fortune answerably great
To your ill-got, unfortunate Estate?
Was I not young and fair, of equal Birth,
Agreable in Person and in Worth?
And now my Dowry's wasted and mispent,
And your own Lands involv'd for Money lent,
Would you make me, to your eternal Shame,
An equal Suff'rer, who deserves no Blame?
Have I, by vain Extravagance or Pride,
Impair'd your Wealth; your Credit misapply'd?
Have I been fond of ev'ry Mode that's new,
Or sunk your Bags to make a gawdy Shew?
Have I been craving, in the Course you've run,
To make a sep'rate Purse, as some have done?
Have I not oft in Tears your Fate foretold,
Unless you timely would your Speed with-hold;
Begg'd you, in Words becoming of a Wife,
To put a Stop to your luxurious Life?
And after all, would you have me to share
A Load of Mis'ries, I've no Right to bear;
Give the last Stake into your Pow'r, to spend,
On which, I fear, we now must both depend?
No, I shall ne'er comply with your Request;
You've spent your own, and I'll secure the rest.
Have you no Issue? O! ingrateful Jew!
And would you make your Children Beggars too?
No, live, and let Repentance be your Doom,
No Pity shall my Prudence overcome,
No Child of mine, whilst I the Staff command,
Shall be made wretched by a Mother's Hand.
I'll not consent to your unjust Desires;
Your Want of Care, the more in me requires.
'Tis true, the Husband ought to bear the Rule,
But Duty binds no Wife to be a Fool.

Gentleman.

Lady.

Gentleman.
Nay, if a Wife thus pitiless can prove,
Bound to be kind by Duty and by Love,
Where can I hope for Pity in Distress,
Among the barb'rous Herd of human Race?
What Help expect from the neglectful Hands
Of fawning Flatterers, or frozen Friends?
What Ease or Comfort from the snarling Duns
Of craving Creditors, who seek my Bones?
At last, what Friendship from a boist'rous Crew
Of Bayliffs, Jaylors and the Lord knows who,
Where dusky Vaults, with Doors and Windows barr'd,
Must keep me close, and Villains be my Guard?
Thus must I starve, confin'd to smoaky Air,
Cold Water, and brown Crusts, perhaps, my Fare;
With rusty Beard, and ragged Cloths disguis'd,
By Foes insulted, and by Friends despis'd;
Forsaken by my Children and my Wife;
O! who can bear with such a dreadful Life?
Such frightful Mis'ries now advanc'd so nigh,
Will surely give me Courage to defy
Man's Pow'r, and rather chuse to stab and die.

Lady.
But hold, my Dear, your Passion soars too high;
These ought to be your Fears, should I comply:
Then might we idly lavish our Remains,
And Starving be the fatal Consequence;
But whilst we keep this Residue entire,
We're safe, at worst, from all those Wants you fear;
For should a Prison be at last your Fate,
You shan't alone peep thro' the dismal Grate.
Whate'er your Suff'rings or Misfortunes prove,
I'll still maintain my Duty and my Love,
And with you share, like an obedient Wife,
The worst Afflictions that attend your Life;
Cherish, indulge, love, honour and obey,
So far as in a just and righteous Way;
But ne'er consent, whilst I behold the Light,
To wrong my Children of their native Right;
For what fond prudent Mother would agree
To ruin such young Plants, to prop a falling Tree.

Gentleman.
On second Thoughts, I cannot blame your Care;
Your Answer's just, and my Request unfair.
I no Misfortune dread, I'm now at Ease,
And thank you for your kind Assurances.
Let the worst happen, I'll enjoy Content;
Your faithful Love gives Freedom in Restraint,
He's always arm'd against a wretched Life,
That's happy in a just and prudent Wife.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Ill Husbands often blame their Wives]

DIALOGUE XV. Between a Dissenting Alderman, and his High-Church Lady.

Alderman.
Why to St. Paul's, my Dear? What make you chuse
A Church that Jacobites and Papists use,
Where English Mass is lyrick'd o'er by Boys,
And Popish Bagpipes make a hideous Noise?
How can a sober Christian be devout
Amidst such Fa-la-la, and Toot-a-Toot?
A Jargon that profanes the Sabbath-Day,
And makes you fitter far to dance, than pray?

Lady.

Alderman.
What signifies this High-Church long Harangue?
Musick, I find, has giv'n your Tongue a Twang.
Tho' David and his Son, in ancient Time,
Had their Church-Pipes, they now may be a Crime
What, tho' they did on Flutes and Cornets play,
We're Christians now, and more refin'd than they.
D'ye make no Diff'rence, in your High-Church Flights
'Twixt Protestants, and Jewish Israelites?
Would you profane the People of the Lord,
And make 'em with their mouldy Rites accord?
So Aaron, Pack-horse like, wore Bells, they say;
Why don't your High-Priest do the like, I pray?
No, you've improv'd your Bells t' a heavier Weight;
The Drudg'ry now would be, alas! too great
Therefore they are aloft in Steeples hung,
To please the Rooks and Jackdaws, when they're rung,
And madly jangl'd o'er the Western Porch,
To chime your slothful Worshippers to Church;
Pull'd round at Weddings, to disturb the Town,
And pick the Bridegroom's Pocket of a Crown;
Rung out at Fun'rals, that the Heir, with Joy,
May pay his Father's Farewel, or his Foy;
Clatter'd thro' all the Kingdom, to amuse
The Land, at ev'ry trifling Piece of News.
These, like your Organs, are Church-Musick too;
But pray what Good do all their Thunder do?
A Bell may at a Tavern-Bar be hung,
Because less noisy than a Woman's Tongue,
And may be rung, to give the Draw'r a Call,
To prevent Madam's more ingrateful Squall.
So may your Heathen Bag pipes be of Use
In Smithfield Booth, or Wapping Musick-house,
That drunken Sea-men, and their wanton Trulls,
May shake their Heels, to please the gazing Fools.
But in a Church, the Babylonian Noise
Is only fit to please the Girls and Boys:
The Voices of the People all are drown'd,
And their Praise stifl'd by the Jargon Sound,
That when they sing, they might as well be dumb
For Nothing's heard but Tweedle-diddle-hum.
Besides, what Saint can hear the Church profan'd
With noisy Pipes, that do in Brothels stand,
And not, with blushing Shame and Anger, see
The roaring Piece of vain Idolatry
Stand up exalted, gilt and painted o'er,
Like that vile Jezabel, the scarlet Whore?
Ah! Wife, they much offend this godly Town,
And when the Saints bear Rule, they must come down;
For to God's House it is a great Abuse,
To have those wicked Instruments in Use,
Whose vile unhallow'd Whistles roar aloud
In Fairs and Brothels, to delight the Croud.

Lady.
I find, my Dear, you're wonderful precise,
But still must think you are more nice than wise.
Why at your Ev'ning-Lectures do ye use
Candles, since Strumpets do the same in Stews?
The Bible too you may as well condemn,
Because we find the Wicked read the same:
Why not our Garments from our Bodies tear,
Since Whores and Rogues do the like Clothing wear?
Or why with a safe Conscience say your Pray'rs
In English, since the Rake in English swears?
Shame on your Folly, to condemn what's good,
Because it's us'd profanely by the Lewd.
You may as well cry, Pull the Churches down,
'Cause, Play-house like, they're built with Brick and Stone;
And rais'd, perhaps, by the same Hands that rear
A Popish Chappel, or a Theatre.
If these are all th'Objections you can raise
Against Church-Musick, which exalts our Praise,
A rev'rend Teacher of your own, long since,
Has said enough t'explode your Ignorance.
Thus, in his Works, the good old Man, we find,
To his dissenting Flock declares his Mind.
‘‘As Spectacles cause weak and aged Sight
‘To read the holy Text with more Delight,
‘So Musick in the Praise of God, 'tis plain,
‘Comforts and elevates the Soul of Man.

Alderman.
Singing is Musick; but he does not say
That noisy Organs should in Churches play;
Pipes in ill Houses practis'd, to entice
Unwary Youth into expensive Vice.
I say, and still by what I say I'll stand,
That 'tis a Scandal to a Christian Land:
A sad Offence, that what so long has been
In Brothels us'd, should be in Churches seen.
I say, they're filthy Pipes, that hum and squeak
In Moorfields Bawdy-houses all the Week;
And therefore should not be allow'd to play
In the Lord's House upon the Sabbath-Day:
They're odious Baubles, and their Practice shew
They serve both God and wicked Mammon too.
I cannot bear 'em, talk of 'em no more,
I'd rather hear the Tower Lyons roar;
I tell thee they're the Bag-pipes of the Whore.

Lady.

Alderman.
O! wicked Jezabel! what is't you mean?
D'ye think your Husband mad, you Popish Quean?
Am I possest with an infernal Sprite,
You Witch of Endor, nay, you Jacobite?
Must I be lectur'd thus, you Harradan,
Because I am not of your High-Church Clan?
Avaunt, thou Satan, I abhor thy Pipes,
The very Name torments me with the Gripes.
Organs! their filthy Tootings fright my Soul.
Do People come to Church to caterwaul?
Must noisy Hum-drum pass for holy Praise?
Why don't you dance too, when your Musick plays?
Can empty Sound with holy Psalms agree,
Like Tweedle-diddle, Hey Boys, up go we?
I'm a true Low-Church Protestant, and hate
To hear your Pipes, in whose Defence you prate:
Their odious Sound shall never take with me;
Their very Breath smells strong of Popery;
And when their Anti-christian Toots I hear,
I fancy that the scarlet Whore is near.
I'll by no Dagon Witchcraft be o'ercome;
Pipe me no Pipes, I hate their wicked Hum.

Lady.

Alderman.
O! vile presumptuous Pestilence, to preach
On holy Things beyond a Woman's Reach.
Thou Female Perkinite, I'll find a Day
To make thee know thou'rt in a dang'rous Way.
Now I'm in haste, and cannot stay so long
As to convince thee, what thou say'st is wrong.
Tis the 'Change-Hour, and Bus'ness must have Place,
There's Time for Gain, as well as saving Grace.

Lady.
Go, Miser, cant no more of Grace to me;
The only Hell thou fear'st, is Poverty.
Thou seek'st no future Heav'n, beyond thy Gold;
For that, thy Conscience has been bought and sold:
And tho' you leave the Church for City-Halls,
Yet, like a true Low Saint, when Int'rest calls,
You can forsake the Meeting, for St. Paul's.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Those to the Love of Money bred]

DIALOGUE XVI. Between a melancholy unfortunate old Merchant, and his parsimonious saving Lady.

Merchant.
Bad News, my Dear, the Greyhound Gally's lost,
She stranded homewards on the Spanish Coast.
What malign Planet threatens my Affairs,
And thus torments me in my silver Hairs?
My younger Labours with Success were crown'd,
But in my Age the Fruits of all are drown'd.
What have I acted that could thus displease
That Pow'r that governs the tempestuous Seas?
Two Vessels in the Compass of two Years,
Bound outwards, taken by the Privateers;
Three richly laden, by the Winds and Waves
Were sunk, and lie entomb'd in liquid Graves.
Beneath these Shocks, what Measures shall I take?
If Credit fail me, I at once must break.
Bills for three thousand Dollars must I pay;
My Door will now be haunted ev'ry Day.
Notes of my Hand besides grow due apace,
Which, if delay'd, will publish my Disgrace.
What shall I do, or how maintain my Ground?
My present Wants require two thousand Pound:
Nor can I hope to raise it, but by Friends,
Who always fail him most, that most depends.

Lady.
Be patient, Love, disorder not your Mind;
Fortune next Year, perhaps, may prove more kind.
You have not yet consider'd how to steer
Your Course, to shun those Rocks and Shelves you fear.
You've Goods enough within your present Pow'r,
To fetch that Sum you mention, ev'ry Hour.
Your Disappointments have been great, I own,
But you're to blame to think your self undone.
'Tis true, you have some Cause for your Complaints,
But cannot be beneath such pressing Wants;
I know your Prudence has been much too great
To venture on the Seas your whole Estate.
Therefore, my Dear, before you thus despair,
Know rightly in what Circumstance you are:
Think not of Friends; they may, perhaps, be shy,
But your own Wants with your Effects supply.
Your Vaults and Ware-houses with Goods are pil'd;
Why then do you despond, since they are fill'd?
Give but your Broker upon 'Change the Pow'r
To sell, and you can need no Friend, I'm sure.

Merchant.
That Cure will prove much worse than the Disease,
There's no Demand of my Commodities.
The Town's already full, the Price but low;
To vend 'em now my present Wants would show.
What's stock'd in Shops this Winter will consume,
Then will my Wares to a good Market come.
But should I sell 'em now, the World would see
My Loss has drove me to Necessity:
Then would my Credit sink, and all Men fear,
Who see such dang'rous Symptoms once appear,
That the destructive Plague of Bankrupcy was near.
The common Rule of Trade does thus advise,
Sell nothing low, that you're assur'd will rise.

Lady.
But, since your present Pressures are so great,
You cannot for a better Market wait.
Your Case, you say, is desp'rate, and your Need,
As Matters stand, must be supply'd with speed.
Your present Safety you must first regard;
No future Gain should be to that preferr'd.
Such ill-tim'd Av'rice, when your Ruin's near,
May hurry on those Dangers which you fear:
But I'm in hopes you'll find some other Way
To clear the Aspect of a frowning Day,
Disperse those angry Clouds you seem to dread,
And keep the Storm from falling on your Head.
Therefore consult how far your Pow'r extends,
But entertain no Thought of doubtful Friends.
Against the worst I'd have you well provide;
But Friends, in whom mistaken Fools confide,
Most commonly withdraw, when in Distress they're try'd.

Merchant.
I have no present Way to raise Supplies,
But by those Goods, which I foresee must rise,
Unless to Friends I do my Streights declare,
Or for large Premiums borrow Sums elsewhere.
These are the only Measures I can use,
And all so bad, I know not which to chuse.
If, at the Price that's current, I dispose
Of my best Wares, I Half in Half must lose;
If, to my ablest Friends, I should apply,
They may prove cool, and my Request deny:
Nor will the craving Banker be content,
Without too large a Premium for the Lent;
And, if distrustful, ask my Ware house Key,
Of twice the Worth, for his Security.
I know no other Methods I can take,
Yet still the worst is better than to break;
But happy is the Man, who, when distrest,
'Twixt sundry Ways, knows how to chuse the best.

Lady.
I own I am not willing you should close
With any of these Measures you propose.
I fancy I a better Way can find,
Than all the Methods you have yet design'd.
Since you have been so kind a Spouse to me,
Tender and loving to a high Degree,
Walk up, I have a faithful Friend in Store,
That will supply the Sum you need, or more.
Take this, my Dear, I hope 'twill ease your Fears;
That I have sav'd within these twenty Years;
Yet nothing has been wanting, that could be
A Credit to your self or Family:
Your Tables have with wholesome Food been spread,
Your Children all genteely cloth'd and bred;
Your Friends at all Times welcome to the best;
My self in decent good Apparel drest;
Your Servants all suffic'd to their Content,
That none could find just Reason of Complaint.
I therefore hope you'll now despond no more,
Or tease your Breast with Dreams of growing poor;
But chear your Heart, and please your self to see
The good Effects of my Frugality.

Merchant.

Lady.

Merchant.
Thanks to my Dearest for this kind Supply,
In spite of Loss, I'm overcome with Joy,
Here's full enough to ease my present Cares,
To save my Stock, and manage my Affairs.
I now can pay my foreign Bills, and raise
My sinking Credit to what Pitch I please;
Be bold on 'Change, despise the Frowns of Fate,
And fear no Hell-hound from the Counter-Gate.
O! happy Woman! O! Indulging Wife!
Whose nursing Care has giv'n my Age new Life.
What can I say, or what hereafter do,
That may requite this gen'rous Act in you?
Money so blest, design'd for my Repose,
I'm sure must prosper wheresoe'er it goes:
Future Success, for certain, cannot miss
To crown a Blessing unforeseen like this.
My Losses now, I hope, I shall survive,
And do not doubt but I apace shall thrive.
Thy timely kind Assistance I foresee
Will be attended with Prosperity.
Ere long, my Dearest, thou shalt find thy Gold
Shall be with Thanks return'd thee double-fold.
My only Care, thro' the Remains of Life,
Shall be to recompence so kind a Wife;
To whose good Hand, now aged and distrest,
I owe the Peace and Comforts of my Breast;
Sure never Man before was in a Wife so blest.

Lady.
I'm highly glad, my Dear, I could command
So large a Sum, to serve so true a Friend.
'Tis but my Duty to exert my Pow'r,
To help you when a Storm begins to low'r;
For she that sees her Husband on the Brink
Of Danger stand, and suffers him to sink,
Without endeav'ring gladly to preserve
His Person or Repute, deserves to starve.
She merits not that venerable Name
Of Wife, but ought, to her eternal Shame,
To be the Sport of Boys, and Mock of common Fame.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[He that endeavours, tho' in vain]

DIALOGUE XVII. Between the grave Philosopher, and his young scolding Wife.

Philosopher.
I find, my Dear, thy Tongue so restless proves,
That like a running Stream it always moves;
Takes wond'rous Pains, for very slender Thanks,
And murmurs like a Brook between its Banks;
All Day it gallops like a Gravesend Pad,
And if I chance to spur, it runs like mad:
Nor can the drowsy God of Silence keep
The teasing Wasp from buzzing in its Sleep;
For as loquacious Storms are thy Delight,
The Thunder-Claps by Day that vent thy Spite,
Eccho again in Dreams aloud at Night.

Wife.
She that wants Tongue, and is too calm to rave,
Is born, if wed, to be a Husband's Slave:
All Men are Tyrants to the weaker Sex,
That have not Sense to study how to vex.
The Tongue's a Woman's Weapon of Defence;
To scold with Skill's a female Excellence:
It guards her from the Insults of her Spouse,
Prevents Neglect, and does his Spirits rouse.
The Husband's always kindest to the Shrew,
Glad to oblige, and careful to be true;
Whilst the poor silent Fool that spares to speak,
Shall scarce receive one Favour once a Week,
But be despis'd, and lead a hateful Life,
More like a worthless Vassal, than a Wife:
Do this, I say, I charge you that forbear;
Fine nuptial Musick in a Woman's Ear!
When the kind Husband, if his Bride be wise,
Fears to offend, and scorns to tyrannize;
Never commands, but crys, my Dear, I pray,
And asks in a petitionary Way;
Courts the good Humour he is glad to find,
And studies how to make and keep her kind.
Wives, like proud Senators, that love to spake,
Are more esteem'd, the greater Noise they make:
One's honour'd by his Prince, because he's fear'd,
The other by her Spouse the more endear'd;
Whilst those subservient Wretches, silent Wives,
Fare like nonspeaking Representatives,
Because their patient, servile Tameness, shows,
They're only fit to pass for Yea's and No's.

Philosopher.
But to talk always, like thy self, my Dear,
What Man unmov'd, can such a Torment bear?
No restless Tongue to factious Clamours bent,
Can more Contention breed, or Malice vent,
Than that rebellious Clack thou keep'st in Play,
Which rowls, like Thunder, round my House all Day.
Thy Breath, like raging Winds, maintains a Storm,
And thy own Bell'wings keep thy Passion warm;
Tho' in my Closet lock'd, I hear thee loud,
As the fierce Language of a breaking Cloud;
Nor in my studious Hours can I be free
From your shrill Clamours at your Maid or me:
'Tis hard all Day, and when at Night in Bed,
I only should with Æsop's Dish be fed.
Consider, Love, that a vexatious Tongue
Is a tough Bit to tug at, tho' 'tis young;
I therefore beg, my Dear, that you'll prepare,
Instead of so much Tongue, some better Fare,
Or the harsh Tone of thy provoking Voice,
Will make me blame my Love, and curse my Choice;
For was I free, I'd sooner wed a Drum,
Than thus be plagu'd with thy incessant Hum:
You, without Cause, exert your noisy Heat,
But that would never grumble, 'till 'twas beat.

Wife.

Philosopher.
Too late Experience tells me, to my Grief,
The marry'd Fool is curs'd beyond Relief:
His Ease and Wisdom he at once forsakes,
Who to his Arms a restless Woman takes.
I find, alas! in Wedlock there can be
No Room to exercise Philosophy.
It is a State by Providence design'd
To low'r our Pride, and level all Mankind;
The Anti-Room of Death, where Women rule,
And place the wise Man equal with the Fool:
Both are but Slaves to their enchanting Arms,
To Drudg'ry led in Triumph by their Charms;
Which, like fine Paintings, that amuse the Sight,
And touch the fond Spectator with Delight,
At a due Distance always best appear,
But lose their Witchcraft, when you come too near.

Wife.
So bookish Sots, like you, philosophize,
'Till, in your own Conceits, you're wond'rous wise.
Fancy, like Marble-Statues, you can bear
The Strokes of Fortune, and the Stabs of Care;
And still unmov'd, a peaceful Breast secure
Amidst those Torments weaker Minds endure;
But, when you're touch'd with Plagues that others feel,
I find your grave Philosophy must reel,
And all your Wisdom out of Season shown,
Prove but a broken Reed to lean upon.
So the rank Coward has sometimes believ'd
He's truly valiant, 'till he's undeceiv'd;
But when he sees the threat'ning Danger near,
His Blusters then are turn'd to pannick Fear.

Philosopher.
But true Philosophy preserves our Ease,
In spite of all the World's Uncertainties;
Right Contemplation arms the peaceful Breast
With divine Patience, when the most opprest;
Teaches us how to suffer, and despise
The Wrongs of those that proudly tyrannize;
To bear the worst Confinement or Restraint
Without Resentment, or the least Complaint;
To endure Poverty, Contempt, or Pain,
With comely Grace, and resolute Disdain,
That no Misfortune, tho' it's ne'er so great,
May reach the Mind, to thwart its happy State;
For he is only truly wise and brave,
That smiling can behold the gaping Grave,
In whose insatiate Cavity he knows
Next Moment he shall take his sweet Repose.

Wife.
And can a Man, so hardy and so wise,
That he can smile at Pain, and Want despise,
Be tortur'd by a foolish Woman's Tongue,
Because 'tis to her own Advantage hung?
Shame on your weak Pretences, to defy
Those Cares of Life no human Race can fly,
And yet at once give up your boasted Ease,
Unable to withstand a Woman's Tease.
'Tis strange the Prattle of a Wife should be
Too pow'rful for your whole Philosophy,
And at once conquer all those musty Rules,
Deriv'd from Heathen Books, and Christian Schools!
Do all your Vertues vanish, when I speak?
Are you unarm'd, when I my Silence break?
Have you no Patience, when your Wife is near?
Does Wisdom fly the Field, when I appear?
Can a weak Woman's verbal Thunder storm
A Mind no other Evils can allarm,
That uncontroul'd enjoys a happy State,
And scorns to flinch beneath the Frowns of Fate?
No, no, your Resolutions are too strong
To yield to the Assaults of Woman's Tongue;
Your Patience is impregnable, and fears
No Foe, that only can alarm your Ears;
Or else, like Fools, buoy'd up by mere Surmise,
You've, in a grave Philosopher's Disguise,
Slept o'er your Books, and only dreamt you're wise.

Philosopher.

Wife.

Philosopher.
I own I'm craz'd with your eternal Tease,
Turn'd mad Man, Fool, or any Thing you please;
Unlearn'd, unpolish'd, thoughtless, apish, wild,
Fit only to be tutor'd like a Child;
A walking-Mate to pleasure Woman's Pride,
A Dog, an Ass, or any thing beside;
A Rogue, a Rascal, by my Stars misled
To the dark Drudg'ry of a nuptial Bed;
Doom'd to get squaling Brats, that they may be
As bad a Torment to my Ears, as thee;
A doating Ideot, fetter'd and undone;
A Staff for my dear Wife to lean upon;
A Cloak for female Vice, a foolish Sot,
Perhaps, to father what I ne'er begot.
Prithee, dear Help-mate, give me mad Man's Law,
A Chain, dark Room, a Porridge-Bowl, and Straw;
These, to a peaceful Mind, more easy prove,
Than all the bitter Joys of noisy Love,
Whose short-liv'd Pleasures but for Moments last,
And always are repented soon as past.
Who then, enamour'd with a studious Life,
Would change a peaceful State, for noisy Strife,
And sacrifice his Freedom to a jarring Wife?

Wife.

Philosopher.
Grey Hairs to female Youth may prove a Curse;
But Woman's Tongue to Man is ten times worse.
The older he, the quieter he proves;
The older she, the more her Clapper moves;
And the more Rest at Night the Husband takes,
By Day the more provoking Noise she makes.
So perverse Rebels always love to tease
That King the most, that's most inclin'd to Ease.
Who then can rule, without incessant Strife,
A factious Kingdom, or a scolding Wife?
Both labour to usurp the Pow'r supream,
One hoping to enslave the Diadem,
The other to subdue her marry'd Fool,
That the proud Scold the nuptial Throne may rule.
But curs'd is that poor Nation, ill it thrives,
By Faction govern'd; and those Husbands Lives
But wretched, who are triumph'd o'er by Wives.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[He that has led a cloister'd Life]

DIALOGUE XVIII. Between Aminadab, a Quaker, and his Wife Rachel, concerning primitive Purity, and the sinful Abominations of the present Age.

Aminadab.
Ah! Rachel, had we liv'd in holy Times,
When Man was just, and conscious of his Crimes,
Before the wicked Seeds of Strife were sown,
And when the Saints in Peace enjoy'd their own:
Sate in full Plenty each beneath his Vine,
And drank the Fruits thereof, now called Wine;
Before the Sons of Baal were Idols made,
And Man was into Satan's Yoke betray'd;
Ere the proud fleshly Arm us'd Swords or Guns,
To set up Pagan Altars, called Thrones.
That sinful Tyrants, whom the Righteous scorn,
Above their Neighbours might exalt their Horn;
Like Dagon, that foul Idol, be ador'd,
And Worship claim, due only to the L---d;
Lay heavy Burthens on the holy Saints,
And fill the World with Quarrels and Complaints.
I say, had we been in the Flesh before
These wicked Offsprings of the scarlet Whore
Had overspread the Earth, we then had been
More glad in Spirit, and more free from Sin;
For since that Idol Mammon is become
Of late the heath'nish God of Christendom,
And we the Saints, with shameful Eyes, behold
God's Grace profan'd upon ungodly Gold,
To please and flatter those unrighteous Things,
Call'd, by the Wicked, Emperors and Kings;
From such Abominations, we may fear
The Time of Desolation draweth near,
When Clouds of sad Perdition shall arise,
Cover the Earth, and darken all the Skies.

Rachel.

Aminidab.

Rachel.
Thou hast no Cause, Aminidab, to be
Thus troubl'd with the Thorns of Jealousy.
I fear the forked Evil has possest
The inward Tabernacle of thy Breast,
And makes thee think, without a Reason why,
That I've forsook the Light, and trod awry:
But I, alas! can solemnly affirm
I never did thee Wrong, or meant thee Harm;
But ever since our Hands were join'd, have been
True as a Lanthorn to the Light within,
Which, as at Night its handed thro' the Streets,
Displays its Lustre to each Eye it meets;
So do I hope, when I'm abroad with thee,
Our Friends my shining Innocence may see,
And, thro' my outward Modesty, descry
I've too much Light within, to tread awry.
Let no ill Thoughts thy righteous Spirit tease,
For groundless Jealousy's a bad Disease;
And if it once be harbour'd in thy Breast,
Will raise thee Horns, altho' thy Wife be chaste.

Aminidab.
O! Rachel, mention not those odious Sprouts;
The very Name begets tormenting Doubts
So harsh a Sound, from out a Woman's Mouth.
Reflects upon a Spouse that's past his Youth;
My righteous Spirit fills with restless Fears,
And worse than Pop'ry, terrifies my Ears;
Provokes my Hand to scratch my itching Brow,
And makes me look dismay'd, I know not how.
So he that walks into a Country Hall,
And sees a Buck's-head nail'd against the Wall,
May grow possest of some unlucky Whim,
And fancy that the Antlers point at him:
Just as the Sight, so likewise may the Name
Of Horns, a Husband's Jealousy inflame.
As frightful Tales do our Attention draw,
And make us dream of Things we never saw,
So Horns, when talk'd on, may confound our Wits,
And make us Cuckolds in our own Conceits.
Let the High-Church-men wear such forked Plants;
They ought not to be nam'd among the Saints.
Such persecuting Weapons should be wore
Only by those who love the scarlet Whore,
That by their sprouting Heads, they may be known
To be the Bucks and Bulls of Babylon;
Those wicked Monsters, who were wont to gore
And tease the poor Elect, in Times of Yore,
And made us cry aloud, thro' all the Land,
The Times of Persecution are at Hand:
But William stretched forth his mighty Arm,
And timely sav'd us from the threat'ning Harm;
Made Pop'ry fly, like Chaff before the Wind,
And rooted up the Tares it left behind.
O! what a holy righteous Man was he,
To save the Land from vile Idolatry!
O! that he had but kill'd that Dragon Sin,
And conquer'd Whoredom, when his Hand was in,
Adult'ry then he'ad banish'd from our Shore,
And we had heard of Cuckoldom no more

Rachel.
Prithee, Aminidab, make no Complaints,
'Less some were wicked, there would be no Saints;
And should not High-Church Brows with Antlers sprout,
'Twould be no Comfort then to be without.
The Wicked should be known by Marks uncouth
Let them be horn'd, I'll keep thy Forehead smooth:
The Reprobate's the Foil, the Saint the Gem;
'Tis by their Sins that we the brighter seem.
Were they to grow as good as us, I say,
We doubtless should become as bad as they;
Distinction then would be entirely lost,
And we no more our Godliness could boast.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Aminidab, with sober Face]

DIALOGUE XIX. Between a Low-Church Husband, and his High-Church Wife, concerning the Times.

Wife.
Prithee, my Dear, what mean these Feuds,
These Wranglings, and Disquietudes?
Go where one will, such Heats arise,
Such spiteful Animosities,
As if some Lunacy was grown
The new Distemper of the Town.
The very People that I meet,
Look wild, and murmur in the Street;
Disguise their Aspects with Grimaces,
And shew strange Passions in their Faces:
Some bite their Lips, some rowl their Eyes,
And stare, as in a deep Surprize;
Whilst others gently pass along,
And to themselves imploy their Tongue;
By smiling, shew their Brains diseas'd,
Like thoughtful mad Men, when they're pleas'd.
Pray tell me what's the sudden Cause,
That Men thus mutter, stare, and pause,
And shew as many various Fits
Of Frenzy, as they pass the Streets,
As if the World, to Mischief bent,
Were all turn'd mad Men by Consent?

Husband.
It is no Wonder, that the Town
Should be so hot and fev'rish grown,
Since such Malignants are allow'd
To poyson and inflame the Croud,
And, by their Preaching and their Pray'rs,
Halloo the Kingdom by the Ears;
But I'll engage their Mouths will soon
Be stopt, or forc'd to change their Tune,
There's Rods in Soak, you'll quickly see,
To whisk 'em whask 'em o'er my Knee.

Wife.
I'm glad with all my Heart, to hear it;
I'd have no canting by the Spirit.
I would have all the Knaves in Town,
That prate in Corners up and down,
And impudently call their teaching
Seditious Nonsense, Gospel preaching,
And, by th'Abuse of Toleration,
For their own Ends debauch the Nation,
And lead the giddy Fools astray,
That pious Knaves may win the Day.
I say, I would have all that cover
Their Rogu'ries with Religion over,
And, by their holy Frauds and Cheats,
Put all the Land beside their Wits,
Whipp'd, banish'd, any Thing to please ye,
In case 'twould make the Kingdom easy;
For 'tis a Shame the Land should be
One wild unhallow'd Nursery
Of loose Opinions, ne'er content
With any Form of Government,
But favour'd, will, in Time, disperse
Confusion thro' the Universe.

Husband.

Wife.
Excuse me, Husband; for, I vow,
I understood you not, till now.
I thought, at first, you meant those Dunces,
Who, without Learning, make their Bounces
Of their exceeding Grace and Knowledge,
Obtain'd in Shop, instead of College;
Grown wise without the Help of Books,
And holy only in their Looks:
Some Weavers, others Taylors bred,
And some to Mustard, Soap and Thread,
Who practis'd Preaching in their Looms,
Or first held forth to Mops and Brooms;
And so, in Time, advanc'd their dull Pates,
From Shops and Stalls, to Ally-Pulpits,
Where, betwixt Impudence and Folly,
They reproach all that's good and holy;
Blaspheme the Church with scoffing Lies,
Her Worship and her Pray'rs despise,
And, with a grave dull Face of Brass,
Make Nonsense for Religion pass,
And, with pretended Grace, supply
The Want of Wit and Honesty.
At first I was in Hopes you'd meant
Such crafty Knaves, to Mischief bent,
And that you were exposing these
Dark Enemies to human Peace,
Who labour to promote Seditions,
And widen all our Home-Divisions:
But I am quite deceiv'd, I find,
For these are Preachers to your Mind,
And the foul Game they long have play'd,
Must now at the Church-door be laid,
And her best Sons unjustly forc'd
To suffer Hardships from the worst;
But these grave Dunces, who delude
The giddy, poor, unthinking Croud,
And strew their Poysons up and down
In Nooks and Corners of the Town,
Are perfect Saints, who cant in Fashion,
And Nonsense preach by Inspiration.
These may revile, rave, rail, blaspheme
The holy Text, or Pow'r supream;
But in an Age so blest as this,
Can neither say or do amiss.
So an imprudent, partial Mother,
Will whip one Child, but spare another,
That's much more faulty than his Brother.

Husband.
I find, my Dear, you can't refrain
Your old, high-flying, angry Strain;
Our holy Guides you must bespatter,
Tho' you know nothing of the Matter.
But 'tis no Wonder, that you're taught
To set such Gospel-Saints at naught,
And to reproach those holy Men,
Who do the Scripture-Truths explain,
Since you're become so fond a Lover
Of high-Church Paul's, and Mary's Over,
Where all your Priests, that are excelling
In the great Gift of noisy Railing,
Chuse to exert their pregnant Parts,
And shew the Rancour of their Hearts.
But where's your High-Church Champion now,
That roar'd so loud some Time ago,
And pour'd the Viols of his Wrath
On Brethren that had broke their Troth?
What has his over-heated Brains
Now got to recompence his Pains?
Had he not better check'd his Passion,
Like a mild Son of Moderation,
And temporiz'd his zealous Heat,
Like the good Man in Coleman-street?
These are not Times for the black Brood
Of high-flown Cocks to crow so loud;
Men must not strain their Elocution,
'Gainst Principles of Revolution;
That's spurning at our Constitution.
Things are not canvas'd now, we see,
As in the Days of Popery;
For, by our Pains and Pray'rs we've brought 'em
To stand upright on a new Bottom,
And there we'll keep 'em, till we gain
The Point we're lab'ring to obtain.
When the old Game we once begin,
We never hang an Arse therein;
For he that hopes to win the Course,
Must ne'er at half Way stop his Horse,
But briskly whip and spur the Steed,
That nothing may retard his speed.

Wife.
I own your Party has begun
An ugly Race, but 'tis not won.
'Tis true, the Odds are on your Side;
You're first it cannot be deny'd;
Yet ere the violent Course be run,
Your crafty Rider may be thrown.
The Jade may stumble, flinch, or falter;
Small Accidents the Bets will alter;
And then it may be two to one
Of our Side, ere the Race be done.
Rump has been thrown, you must allow,
When safer seated than 'tis now,
Because it ne'er could long maintain
The Saddle, or command the Rein.
By headstrong Pushes, and by Art,
The Rump sometimes has got the Start,
But always ended in a Fart,
New Models has it often made,
And many strange Foundations laid;
But still, whatever was erected
Thereon, could ne'er be long protected.
So Boys, in Architect unskill'd,
With Cards will Paper-Fabricks build;
But with the next chance Puff that's blown,
The lofty Babel tumbles down.

Husband.
But those strong Bull-warks we have made
Against the Mischiefs that we dread,
Are founded now upon the Pow'r
Of Law, to make 'em more secure.
No Pop'ry now can scale the Walls,
Or high flown Sermons, at St. P---'s,
Beat down those Barriers we have rais'd
'Gainst Persecution, God be prais'd.
These are the Days of Moderation;
No Dog-Star Zeal is now in Fashion.
Men must not prop their sinking Faith,
By Dint of Bell'wing, in their Wrath.
The Pulpit is no Sanctuary
For Gown men, when their Tongues miscarry.
They're taught to understand of late,
The Diff'rence 'twixt the Church and State,
And that Religion must not mix,
In pious Times, with Politicks;
Or Teachers undertake to tell
What's right or wrong, or ill or well,
But, without cavilling, submit
To what their Rulers think most fit,
And only preach up, thro' the Nation,
Down right Repentance and Salvation.

Wife.

Husband.
Superior Pow'r may stop our Way,
And sometimes keep us at a Bay;
But I presume, we lose not oft
By Folly, what we gain by Craft.
I fancy we shall be too bold
And cunning now, to quit our Hold.
The Game is on our Side secure;
We've dealt it right, and play'd it sure.
Our Honours your small Trumps command;
We've all the Court-Cards in our Hand.
You've nothing in your Pow'r, to gain
Your Ends, above a single Ten.
How therefore can your Side suppose,
That you can win, or we can lose.

Wife.
You can't but own, amidst your Pride,
We've Truth and Justice on our Side;
And they, altho' sometimes o'ercast,
Ne'er fail to shine aloft at last.
The Sun, when darken'd by a Storm,
Seems, when its o'er, more bright and warm.
The Hopes, that chear our drooping Hearts,
Depend not upon human Arts,
But on the Pow'r, and promis'd Love
Of him that dwells and rules above.
We fear not all your crafty Tricks,
Your Knav'ries, and your Politicks;
Kind Providence still countermines,
And baffles all your dark Designs;
Makes your corrupt Beginnings tend
To dire Confusion in the End,
That the vile Courses which you run
Ne'er prosper, they're so ill begun,
By Heaven never are befriended,
But always to your Shame are ended.

Husband.

Wife.

Husband.
Rail on at us, that are precise,
And call our Sanctity Disguise.
A sober Look's a better Grace,
I'm certain, than a brazen Face.
You'd have us rattle, swear, and roar,
Like a Sea-Calf, just come on Shore;
And gaze at ev'ry Woman's Charms,
Like Campaign Beau, bred up to Arms,
That all Men, in our Looks, might see
A loose, regardless Vanity:
Then truly I, perhaps, might pass
For a gay Fool, or blust'ring Ass,
And have the Honour to be thought
Some swagg'ring High Church God knows what.
But in this Age of Reformation,
When down-cast Looks, thro' all the Nation,
Are now become the only Fashion,
Who'd from his present Int'rest fly;
By holding up his Head too high?
Or vex his Neighbours, by his proud
Dissenting from the common Mode?
No, no, I'll to the Times conform,
On H---dly's Side be stiff and warm;
Make Lords and Judges of the Rabble,
And for elective Freedom squabble;
Derive all Power from the People;
Revile the Church, that wears a Steeple;
Like an old vex'd Fanatick, rail
Against Sa---l, Tooth and Nail,
And want of true Reproach, supply
With false malicious Calumny;
For naked Truth won't please our Nation
Without a little Illustration;
Nor will the down-right Fact suffice,
Unless adorn'd with Shams and Lies,
From hence we're ever in the Right,
And conquer always when we fight;
For we the Saints can, by a Knack,
Turn Black to White, or White to Black.

Wife.
I find, my Dear, you're very free
T'acquaint me with your Policy.
You have acknowledg'd very plain,
Your Godliness is down-right Gain,
And that you humour and collogue
That Worship which is most in Vogue,
And will be always true and hearty
To the most rich and pow'rful Party;
Shift any Way to save your Bacon,
And ne'er be to your Hurt mistaken.
So Soldiers face about, to save
Themselves in Battel from the Grave;
And Vessels tack this Way, or t'other,
To pleasure him that guides the Rudder,
Why therefore should not Men at Land
Comply with what they can't withstand;
And, like their Betters, change their Course,
As best shall suit the gaping Purse?
Who would his God for nothing serve,
Or stand by any Faith, to starve?
I'll warr'nt you think it Time to fly
That Church that totters, 'cause it's high,
And plead, that 'tis no Sin to dread
What you see tumbling on your Head.
You've all these Arguments, t'excuse
The Shiftings you for Int'rest use;
And could, no doubt on't, for your Gain,
Turn Papist or Mahometan;
And for Gold, follow Pope or Mufti,
Provided you could do't with Safety.

Husband.

Wife.

Husband.
I'd have you, by all Means, continue
The Faith that is establish'd in you;
And, by your Talk and Practice, show
That you're as high, as I am low:
Then let the Times turn how they will,
One must be of the right Side still,
And they may save the other free,
In Time of Need, from Jeopardy.
Let us like two Well-Buckets prove,
One downwards, t'other upwards move;
Wind diff'rent Ways, yet shew no Heat,
But kiss, like them, when e'er we meet.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Where Love of Gold corrupts the Heart]

DIALOGUE XX. Between a very talkative Madam, and her merry drunken Husband, who always us'd to sing when his Wife scolded.

Wife.
I wonder that you'll stay so late;
This sitting up, you know, I hate.
Why will you put me in a Fright,
By tarry'ng from me half the Night,
And make me think you've met with some
Affront or Mischief, coming Home?
You're sensible I ne'er can close
My Eyes, or take the least Repose,
If I should go to Bed without you,
My Heart's so full of Fears about you.
Therefore no Man, that ever knew
The Love that to a Wife was due,
Would serve a Woman so, but you.

Husband
sings.
Let us fill, and let us drink,
Wine will drive all Care away;
If your Bus'ness bids you think,
Postpone it to another Day.
Why should a Man become a Slave
To Wealth, to Bus'ness, or a Wife?
The merry Glass is all we have
To sooth the vexing Plagues of Life.

Wife.
Yes, yes, I know the merry Glass
Is all you covet to embrace;
The Sots, with whom you lead your Life,
Are dearer to you than your Wife.
The Room behind the Tavern-bar,
Is better than your House by far;
And now and then a flatt'ring Kiss
That's stoll'n from Madam, or her Niece,
Is more esteem'd from one less fair,
Than all your lawful Pleasures are,
And with a greater Gust enjoy'd
Than the stale Favours of your Bride.
So those, who near the Forest live,
For coarser Meat will Ven'son give,
Because the last has cloy'd their Taste,
And makes them think the worst the best.

Husband
sings.
A Woman's a talkative Creature,
Her Tongue is perpetually moving,
When vex'd, she's all over ill Nature;
When pleas'd, she's too fond and too loving.
A flattering Fool may decoy her,
She's easily tempted to Evil;
Tho' an Angel before we enjoy her,
She often proves after a Devil.

Wife.
Who was't you ever found so easy,
So forward, fond, and free to please ye?
Did ever I shew such Miscarriage,
Till bound to condescend by Marriage?
Was I inclin'd to step aside,
Ere I became your lawful Bride?
Could your fine Tongue prevail with me
To shew the least Immodesty,
Till first oblig'd by nuptial Vows
To humour a desirous Spouse;
To love, to honour, and obey,
And please you in an honest Way?
Abroad, perhaps, you've met with those,
That, if but flatter'd, would expose
Their Charms, and when you think you've won
Their Hearts, prove Devils when they've done.
I would have all Men, who have Wives,
And lead debauch'd and drunken Lives,
Meet with such Ladies of the Town,
That they may learn to prize their own,
And know the Diff'rence 'twixt a common
Prostitute, and a vertuous Woman.
Who in this wicked Age is slighted,
Whilst Sluts are treated and delighted.

Husband
sings.
She that has sinn'd, would fain be thought
Divinely good and chaste;
All Womens failings, 'till they're caught,
Lie hid beneath the Waste.
The Harlot rails against her Trade,
To those that do not know her,
Altho' sh'as been in private made
A thousand times a Whore.
You say you're just; you may be so,
Your Word is all I've for it;
But whether you are chaste or no,
My Comfort is my Claret.
I value not the nuptial Tease
Of Tail or Tittle-tattle;
No Woman shall disturb my Ease,
My Mistress is the Bottle.

Wife.
'Tis evident enough, you Sot,
You're wedded to the Tavern Pot;
Or else you'd never spend your Life
With that, much more than with your Wife;
Make it your principal Delight
To hug the Poyson Day and Night;
Whilst I must unregarded stay
At home, and sigh my Time away;
Be no more valu'd than a Slave,
Or the worst Houshold-Stuff you have.
Can all your Kindness, heretofore
So oft repeated o'er and o'er;
Your courtly Vows and Protestations;
Your Sighs, and your Asseverations,
And all the Charms of my Embrace
Be drown'd already in the Glass?
Had I foreseen your Love would grow
So cool, you should have pin'd 'till now,
Ere I'd have foolishly comply'd
To've been a Tavern-Hunter's Bride:
But Wedlock's a deceitful State,
Wherein Repentance comes too late;
Nor can mistaken Woman see
Her Fault, 'till past a Remedy.
But still remember sh'has a Tongue
To tell, and to revenge her Wrong;
And if that Sting cannot perplex ye
Enough, sh'as other Ways to vex ye.

Husband
sings.
The best a Scold can do,
Shall never much delight me;
The Threats of such a Shrew
Shall never vex or fright me.
Her fickle wav'ring Smiles
Shall ne'er have Pow'r to please me;
The worst of all her Ills
Shall ne'er provoke or tease me.
Her Tongue, tho' as loud
As the Shouts of a Croud;
Her Tail, tho' as free
As a Woman's can be,
I no more would regard her, Abroad or at Home,
Than a treacherous Jilt, or a noisy Drum;
But when sober and sad, to my Bottle would fly,
And her female Revenge both despise and defy.

Wife.

Husband
sings.
Altho' you prove worse and worse,
Your Policy still shall fail;
For I have Command of my Purse;
As much as you have of your Tail.
You may scold 'till you tire your Tongue,
I never shall mind your Noise,
You may whore, and be pox'd, now young,
And when rotten, repent of your Joys.
If you please, you may humour your Lust,
But shall neither have Cloths or Coin,
Unless at some other Fool's Cost;
For you ne'er shall be lewd at mine.
Tho' I cannot subject a Shrew,
I can govern my own Estate;
And whether you're false or true,
I'll be easy in spite of Fate:
For I'll spin out my Days
With my Friend, and my Glass,
And as oft as I please
Have a jolly young Lass;
Never mind an ill Wife, let her run to the Devil,
But live as if freed from so teasing an Evil.

Wife.
Sing on, my Dear, my Ears can bear it;
O rare Effects of costly Claret!
Immortal Red secures your Mind
Against all worldly Cares, I find,
And makes you wisely soar above
The Thoughts of Marriage, and of Love;
But a Night's Rest will tame your Crown,
And fetch your wand'ring Fancy down;
Reduce you to a mortal State,
Tho' now so God-like, and so great.
One Morning's Dish of healing Tea,
Will cure this drunken Lunacy;
Dethrone th'imaginary King,
And make you quite another thing.
So those in Fevers often think
They're God knows what, like Men in Drink;
But Opiates, taken in due Season,
Give Rest, and that restores their Reason;
And then they find those wild Extreams,
That puff'd 'em up, were only Dreams.

Husband
sings.
Tho' Drinking makes us mad,
Yet Scolding makes us worse;
That's good, which makes us glad,
What plagues us, is a Curse.
Would Women silent prove,
'Twould hinder Man's Excess;
The more at Home we love,
Abroad we drink the less.
But if Wives will be Shrews,
And their Husbands amuse
With impertinent Wrangle and Prattle,
Then away do we fly
To some Tavern that's nigh,
And bemoan our selves over the Bottle.

Wife.
If Man to Drinking is inclin'd,
A small Excuse will serve, I find.
But since your Ears cannot agree
With Woman's weak Loquacity,
Excuse what's past, and I'll remember
To bridle my unruly Member;
For who, that's airy, brisk, and young,
Would not restrain a nimble Tongue,
Rather than lose the fruitful Joys
Of a much sweeter Exercise?

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Of all the Plagues that wait on Love]

DIALOGUE XXI. Between an over-fond Husband, very desirous of Children, and his cunning Wife, who pretends often to miscarry yet is never with Child.

Husband.
How fares my only Dear, my Duck;
What makes my lovely Jewel look
So squeamish, and so pale to Day,
Who us'd to be so brisk and gay?

Wife.
Such Qualms, my Dear, alas! are common
To her that is a breeding Woman.
I'm gone, you know, three Months at least;
Don't I grow bigger in the Waste?
Lay but your Hand upon my Side,
And you may feel I'm spread more wide.

Husband.
I think you are improv'd, I vow;
I hope 'twill come to something now.
Prithee, my Dear, take special Care
How you step down from Stair to Stair,
Lest you should tread your Foot awry;
And get a Fall or Wrench thereby.
Hand nothing to or from the Shelf,
For fear you should o'er-reach your self,
And get a Mischief, that may spoil
The Child, and all our Hopes beguile.

Wife.
I'll be as cautious as I can,
Yet all one's Care may be in vain;
For when most safe in our own Fancies,
We often stumble on Mischances.
It is not good to be o'er careful,
Nor should you be so very fearful;
For what we dread the most, some say,
We meet the oft'nest in our Way,
And into those Disasters run,
Which we endeavour most to shun.
So tim'rous Folks are apt to die
Of those Diseases that they fly;
And many live in Fear and Pain
Of Accidents that prove their Bane.

Husband.
But pray consider, you've miscarry'd
Already twice or thrice, since marry'd.
One Cause, as you your self declare,
Was lifting up an Elbow-Chair;
Another Time you long'd to taste
A Pasty carry'ng to a Feast,
And fell extreamly ill upon it,
Because so foolish not to own it;
A third time frighted by a Rat;
You squeak'd, and took your Bed at that.
Therefore, as you have brought your Life
So oft in Danger, since a Wife,
And are again with Child, I vow,
You should be very careful now.
Always remember, I desire,
That the burnt Infant dreads the Fire,
And let's not lose a nuptial Heir,
For want of either Cost or Care.

Wife.
We breeding Wives, I must confess,
Are oft too careless and remiss;
Forgetful of our selves, to save
The Charge of what we ought to have,
Because our Spouses should not think
Too much of what we eat or drink;
Tho' she that is in my Condition,
Should never feed on coarse Provision,
But should have Pheasant, Teal, and Chicken,
And such like dainty Bits to pick on;
Drink in the Morning, and at Dinner,
Rich Wine, to cherish what's within her;
And have at all times in her Closet,
Ingredients for a good Sack-Posset.
But I am no such costly Woman,
Tho' 'tis with other Wives too common:
When not with Child, and when I am,
I eat and drink the very same;
Hate you should think me nice or craving
Of Dainties, when I may be saving;
Tho' I can see in other Houses,
How breeding Women use their Spouses.

Husband.
Thou know'st, my Dear, I've more good Nature,
And think'st, I hope, I love thee better,
Than to be angry or uneasy
At any Cost, that may but please thee.
I never yet was so unkind to
Deny thee what thou hadst a Mind to;
But always very freely granted
Whatever you'd but say you wanted.
Could'st thou eat Gold, to do thee Good,
I'd feast thee with the wealthy Food.
What Husband, blest with such a Wife,
The Joy and Comfort of his Life,
Could, in thy Circumstance, deny her
The costly'st thing she could desire?
Not I; but prithee drink and eat
The finest Wines, and best of Meat,
That the young Embrion may become
A little Sampson in thy Womb;
And when from thence he's midwiv'd, prove
The Wonder of our nuptial Love.

Wife.
Your Kindness needs no farther Proof;
I know, my Dear, you're fond enough.
But after all, I dread this Night;
Don't I look pale? I am not right.
I'm full of grinding Pains, I vow,
And feel my self I know not how.
Lord bless me, how I stretch and yawn!
I shall be worse, I fear, anon.
O dear, what ails my Back, I wonder!
It achs as if 'twould rend asunder.
I must be forc'd, at last, I doubt,
To send for Mother Bawdicut.
In my Condition I may grow
Worse, of a sudden, f'or ought I know.

Husband.
Be not so fanciful, my Dear;
I hope there's no such Danger near,
As to require a Midwife's Aid,
Therefore chear up, be not dismaid;
For strong Conceit may, by the Force
Of Faucy, make your Illness worse.
You've done your self some Harm, I fear,
By lifting up a Stool or Chair;
Or had a longing Mind, I doubt,
For something you have gone without.
Prithee, my Jewel, tell me truly
How 'tis; to hide it, would be Folly;
Don't be so bashful, but confess
The Cause of your Uneasiness.

Wife.
I vow, my Dear, I would impart
What you require, with all my Heart,
But cannot guess, upon my Word,
The Reason I am so untow'rd,
Except one thing should be the Cause;
But that's not it, I do suppose.
So insignificant a Matter,
Could never thus disorder Nature.
But, bless me! what a Fool am I?
Why should a Wife so far comply,
As to perplex her Spouse, and tease
His Breast with her Infirmities?
Consider, Love, our Sex are weak,
And in some Cases cannot speak;
My Modesty will not allow
My Tongue to tell my Folly now;
Or else, my Dear, I would, I vow.

Husband.
But in a dangerous Case, like this,
You should not be so very nice,
Where it concerns their Health and Ease,
All Wives should have their Liberties,
And not, to their own Hurt, conceal
The Causes that have made 'em ill.
Without such Freedom, no Physician
Can rightly judge of your Condition.
So that if Woman may declare
Her Mind to those who Doctors are,
No Doubt but it becomes each Dame
T'acquaint her Husband with the same;
Therefore deny me not, but prithee
Let me know truly how 'tis with thee.

Wife.
I'm sure, you'll think me very silly;
Or else, my Dear, I'd tell you freely:
But when you know the light Occasion
Of this my strange Indisposition,
You'll blame me for my Indiscretion.

Husband.
You know I ne'er reflect or tease ye,
But always strive to make you easy.
Therefore I beg you to be free,
And lay aside your Modesty
For once, and tell me what's the Matter;
I swear I'll never blame you a'ter.

Wife.

Husband.
Why did'st not watch him where he went?
And to his Lady I'd have sent
Three times the Value of the Peas,
To've set thy longing Mind at Euse.
There can be no such Woman sure,
From her that's rich, to her that's poor,
Who knows what 'tis to be a Mother,
But would have so far serv'd another.
However, will no Peas suffice,
But those that so bewitch'd your Eyes?
I care not if they cost a Guinea,
Would they preserve the Child within ye.

Wife.
Alas! my Dear, it's now too late,
I find my Pains grow very great.
I wish it does not prove my End,
For God's sake for the Midwife send.
These Grindings quicker come, and stronger,
I cannot thus hold out much longer.

Husband.
Lord bless me, Child, you make me start!
I'm sorry for thee at my Heart.
I'll step my self, for thy dear Sake,
And then there can be no Mistake.
Run, Bess, I charge you, for your Life,
And call my Neighbour Dunch's Wife;
And I my self will fetch old Mother
Bawdicut hither, or some other.

Wife.
To her self.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[He that's uneasy with his Bride]

DIALOGUE XXII. Familiar Chat between a loving Couple, Concerning their own Happiness.

Husband.
O let us bless the Day, my Dear,
That plac'd us in this happy Sphere,
Wherein we mutually possess
Such unmolested Happiness.
What Man would chuse a single Life,
That knew the Comforts of a Wife;
Or could conceive the sweet Delights,
That crown our nuptial Days and Nights?
If Paradise long since profan'd,
And lost by Eve, can be regain'd,
A marry'd Station sure must be
That State of true Felicity.

Wife.
Since Wedlock is so much cry'd down
By Beaus and Blockheads of the Town,
And so discountenanc'd of late,
As if 'twas going out of Date,
Now you have try'd, I'm glad to find
It proves so pleasing to your Mind,
And that you're willing to afford
A marry'd Life so good a Word.
Your kind Opinion does redound
Much to my Honour, I must own;
For he that's wed, and when h'as try'd,
Approves the State, commends his Bride,
As he that does condemn the same,
Reflects severely on his Dame.
Therefore, I'm proud to hear you say,
You bless that kind auspicious Day,
That join'd our Hands, and made your Life
So truly happy in a Wife.

Husband.
To be so highly blest, and not
To own the same, must be a Fau't.
The least Returns of Gratitude,
To a kind Wife so chaste and good,
Is for a Husband to confess
Wherein consists his Happiness,
Lest she should think her Care to please,
Contributes little to her Ease,
And that he had no real Taste
O'th' matchless Blessings he possest;
And therefore was, for want of Sense,
Unworthy of such Excellence.

Wife.
I find then, if I strive, my Dear,
To make you happy, I shall hear
Of all my Qualities, that prove
A Blessing to your nuptial Love.
I therefore hope you'll be as free,
To tell me of the Faults you see,
That I from thence may learn to mend
Those Slips and Failings that offend;
For since you have a Sense to prize
That Goodness Men too oft despise,
And take a Pleasure, and a Pride,
To own the Merits of your Bride,
It doubly binds me to improve
Those Vertues that preserve your Love,
And to be careful that I steer
My Actions to oblige my Dear.
Since Man can, for its Lustre, prize
The Gem that dazzles human Eyes,
And, notwithstanding 'tis his own,
Yet boast the Value of the Stone,
Why should not Husbands be allow'd
To praise their Wives, and be as proud
Of those engaging Charms they find
In their kind Carriage, Face, and Mind?

Husband.

Moral Reflexions on the foregoing Dialogue.

[Would Man and Wife no notice take]