The Folly of Love; OR, AN ESSAY UPON satire AGAINST WOMAN.  
Motus doceri gaudet jonicos  
Matura Virgo, & frangitur artubus  
Jam nunc, & incestos amores  
De tenero meditatur ungui.  Hor. Ode 6. Lib. 3. 
London, Printed for E. Hawkins, 1691.   

THE PREFACE.  
THese Papers, (the Effect of some leisure Hours in the Country) had never seen the Light, being Wrote only for my own Private Diversion; if by a most unexpected Accident, a fair Written Copy of it had not come to my hands, desiring my strict Examination of it, in order to its being Published. I confess I was as much surprised to see it, as Mr. Dryden's Sofia in Amphitrion was to view Mercury in his own Shape: I knew I had the Original in my Closet, and wondered to find one so nearly like it in Manuscript.  
I was often, I must confess, Importuned for a Copy, but denied it to the Dearest of my Friends; those few who read it, Protested by all that was Sacred, not to Transcribe a Line of it: But it seems some very civil Gentleman, to me unknown, (finding a Salvo for his Promise) Copied it, and sent it to a Bookseller, (pretending he found it on the Road) desiring, if he thought it would turn to Account, to Print it: He, as Interest Governs the World, resolved to send it to the Press. This coming to my Knowledge, I was absolutely necessitated to Print it in my own Defence; and as it is, 'tis all at the Readers Service. Perhaps some Angry SHE may be Offended with some biting Lines; but let her Fret on, 'tis the same thing to me, for of all the Misfortunes Incident to Flesh and Blood, Heaven Deliver me from Love and Dotage.   

THE Folly of Love, A satire.  

HAppy was Man at first by Nature made,  
The welcome guest of Eden's blissful shade;  
With awful Reverence every where Adored,  
And all the Creatures owned him for their LORD;  
Even the wild Beasts, who have been Rebels since,  
Then practised Nonresistance to their Prince.  
When for his pleasure he disposed to rest,  
No saucy Insect durst his sleep molest;  
In gentle slumbers undisturbed he lay  
Till Phoebus ushered in the newborn day;  
Lord of himself, his passions not enslaved;  
He nothing wanted, for he never craved.   

It happened on a too too fatal time,  
As he did up a Spacious Mountain climb  
Of Nature's works, a prospect to survey,  
A lovely Grove invited him to stay;  
Where spreading Beach and stately Elm afford  
A pleasing shade to the Creation's Lord:  
Hard by, a murmuring Stream did softly creep,  
On whose green Banks he laid him down to sleep:  
But whilst in pleasant Dreams intransed he lay,  
Some Spirit came and stole his Rib away,  
And of that crooked shapeless thing did frame  
The World's great Plague, and did it Woman name.   

He ' waked, with Wonder and Devotion filled,  
When he her goodly Shape and Form beheld:  
With gazing his amazement was increased,  
He thought she was some Goddess at the least:  
But when the thing was better understood,  
He found she was but only Flesh and Blood.  
Without Priest's Aid he took her for his Bride,  
And laid the smiling Mischief by his side.  
Love's solemn Rights not long had been fulfilled,  
But his new Spouse perceived she was with Child;  
And though he strove by all kind arts to please,  
Yet all in vain, she could not be at ease,  
Until by stealth to save her longing, she  
Had tasted of the one forbidden Tree:  
The fatal morfel hardly swallowed down,  
She found the angry Face of Heaven to Frown;  
Yet so prevailing was her Malice grown,  
She was resolved not to be cursed alone,  
And therefore with insinuating smiles,  
Her too believing Husband soon beguiles:  
The baneful Treat soon opens both their Eyes,  
To take a prospect of their Miseries;  
With melancholy sights they mourn their Fate,  
And Eden with regret they Abdicate.   

From her accursed Loins have sprung a Race,  
The Worlds, their Own, and all Mankind's Disgrace.  
Woman! at speaking of the very name,  
Nature starts back and hides herself in shame.  
Woman! the fatal Authress of our Fall:  
Woman! the sure Destroyer of us all,  
Like Sodom's Apples pleasant to the Eye,  
Within pale rottenness, and ashes lie;  
Their very sight our youthful Blood enrage,  
And prove as fatal to declining age.  
Oh! could we live without that cloven Sex,  
Whose only pleasure's to torment and vex,  
Angels from their abodes would downwards fly,  
And bless mankind with their society.   

Although but little hopes can ere be had,  
To mend what is incorrigibly bad;  
Yet satire thy severest Whip prepare  
To lash the sex, so very vile and fair.  
Be just, spare neither Quality nor Age,  
From Girl, just fit for Man, to Matron sage;  
From Dunghill-raker, up to Lady fine,  
Dressing all day in Playhouse Box to shine;  
Recount their various Arts, their subtle Wiles,  
Their artful Tears, and their more artful Smiles;  
Their numerous Vices, which they Virtue Paint,  
And from the Woman separate the Saint,  
That so unwary, heedless Youth may shun  
Those fatal Rocks, where others split upon.   

Of all the various seeds of Vice which rest  
Within the compass of the Female Breast;  
The first which shows itself in open view  
Is Pride, the earliest sin the Devil knew:  
But such success does the imitation fall,  
The Copy far exceeds th' Original.  
In Pride, so quickly they proficient grow,  
That Babes the Nipples do not sooner know.   

Should any daring Pen attempt to show  
What sorts of Dress our Modern Females know,  
What antic habits their own Mothers wore,  
And what was used an hundred years before,  
Their Farthingales, Stiff-Ruffs, and all the train  
Of Fashions used in old Queen Bess' Reign;  
Could he describe the Rise and Pedigree  
Of Monumental Top-Knot Gallantry,  
Expose their arts (which they esteem no sin)  
To mend the Face, and Meliorate the Skin,  
Of Washeses, Paints, Perfumes, display their skill,  
The bare relation would more Volumes fill,  
Than are in Oxford or the Vatican,  
And reach from thence to China or Japan.  
Even the raw Country Girl just come to Town  
In her Straw-Hat and Linsy-Wolsy Gown,  
Rather than she unmodish would appear,  
And come to Church in her plain rusty Gear,  
By Envy and by Inclination led,  
Will for new rigging pawn her Maidenhead,  
All on a sudden grows so wondrous pretty,  
The City Mantua hides plain Country-Betty.   

Nay the Old Madams too, who one would think  
Stood tottering upon life's extremest brink;  
Those who in spite of Nature will be young,  
At Theat'res and Churches where they throng,  
Are (but with laughter) by the Gallants seen  
Dressed and set off like Girls of Seventeen.  
Lord! with a what uncommon charming Grace,  
That fine Settee becomes a wainscot Face!  
How Mother Shipton looks dressed up in Point,  
Who, though her Face with Paint she so anoint,  
That like a Jointed Baby she appears,  
So sleek, so plump, so ruddy, and so clear,  
Yet all can never hide her Threescore Years.  
But so unlimited a vice is Pride,  
That Nature's Faults it does not only hide,  
But even as far as serves to cheat the Eye,  
Does her Defects as constantly supply.   

Imagine now from Playhouse just returned  
A Lady, who when there, in fancy burned;  
Uneasy by some disappointments made,  
Preparing to undress herself for Bed;  
Her curled Locks (mistaken for her own)  
Are in confusion on her Toylet thrown;  
Next her Glass Eye put nicely in a Box,  
With Ivory Tooth, which never had the Pox,  
Her stiff Steel-Bodies, which her Bunch did hide,  
Are with her artificial Buttocks laid aside;  
Thus she who did but a small hour ago,  
Like Angel or Terrestrial Goddess show,  
Slides into loathsome sheets, where since we've fixther,  
Leave her, of Pride and Lust, an equal mixture.   

Not all the Malice joined with all the Wit,  
With which ill natured Poets ever writ,  
Could ever yet describe the various kinds  
Of women's boundless Lusts, which strictly binds  
Their Souls and Bodies, so they seem to be  
Composed of nothing else but Lechery:  
The little Girl who can but write fourteen,  
Thinks days are ages till the sport she's seen,  
Although her amorous Nest is hardly Feathered,  
Although scarce ripe, yet longs she to be gathered.   

Even they whom pious Education fools,  
Or else are bound by strict Monastic Rules,  
Yet burn with such an inward Lustful Flame,  
As all their little Arts can never tame.   

Lap-Dogs and D— s serve as much to cure  
Their amorous customary Calenture,  
As men in Fevers, when they drink small Beer,  
Which makes the Fit return but more severe.  
All the endeavours for to quench desire,  
Serve only to promote the hidden Fire.  
Lust, the first lesson which they always learn  
‛ Ere they the difference of Sex discern;  
But that at last by airy notions got,  
Is the whole subject of their private chat;  
Nay, Bawds half drunk at a young Bastards Christening  
More lewdly cannot talk, than I (who listening)  
Have heard young Virgins in a corner prattle  
About some notions broached by Aristotle.  
But since the name of Lust is too severe,  
Too harsh and rugged for the Female Ear,  
We'll call it Love, and under that disguise,  
Observe their various close Hipocrisies.   

By arbitrary Custom, long since cursed,  
In Love, the Women must not offer first:  
They must appear indifferent and cold,  
And when the Youth has all his Passions told,  
Put on a forced Disguise, and gravely say,  
What pity Sir, fine words are thrown away!  
In other things I'm much at your command,  
But not one word of Love I understand;  
Yet by her Eyes, which best the Soul express,  
Her inclinations are not hard to guests.   

Suppose a Youth most Fortunately Blest  
With all the Charms that ere his Sex possessed;  
Transformed by Love into a whining Fool,  
A Woman's Play-thing, and a Chamber-Tool:  
If she be Proud, (as where's the She is not?)  
When Prostrate at her Feet she sees the Sot;  
With greater Pride the Turk did never seem,  
T' Insult on Prostrate Slaves, than she on him:  
She slights his Presents, and neglects his Passion,  
And makes his Torments but her Recreation  
But yet his Flatteries have this effect,  
In punishing her feigned cold neglect;  
Her Pride and Lust they so much serve t'inflame,  
That she at last in order them to tame,  
Her wishes to some Stallion does impart,  
And his Strong Back must ease her Amorous Smart.  
— Thus what to Love and Merit was denied,  
Is by the Favourite Groom or Footman tried.  
Thus though the Nymph began t'appear so coy,  
Yet lets another taste the hidden Joy;  
For the whole Sex agree it shall be said,  
Nature made Mouths which were not to be Fed;  
Sometimes a Crust goes with more Gusto down,  
Than all French Kickshaws and Ragous' in Town:  
Cursed Fate of Women who do always run  
In those extremes which most they strove to shun.   

But grant her Generous, Affable and Kind,  
And not to Pride or Tyranny inclined;  
Easy when Courted, and disposed to yield,  
And leave Philander Master of the Field.  
Tho the last favours are allowed, and he  
Proud of a new obtained Felicity,  
Loves even to a dotage, knows no Heaven but she,  
And thinks the Gods not half so blest as he:  
Yet in the midst of all his rapt'rous Joys,  
Before his Person or Enjoyment Cloys,  
She Jilts him; and to heighten his disgrace,  
Kisses some new pretender 'fore his Face.  
Some little time she's kind to this new Lover,  
But quickly does some cause of change discover:  
Weary of him she to another flies,  
Swears he's the only person she can prise;  
But having him two days, five hours, three-quarters,  
Leaves him to Hang in Penitential Garters;  
Still apt to change, to give their Sex their due,  
They scarcely are to their own wishes true.  
They Love, they Hate, and yet they know not why,  
Constant in nothing but Inconstancy.  
When you of Nature can divert the curse,  
And make the Loadstone leave its ' tractive force.  
Prove Snow is black, and wash the Negro white,  
And make the Sun appear in darkest night:  
Fix Quicksilver, and make the Sea stand still,  
And cause the Clouds no longer Rain distil;  
When this by art you can affect and do,  
Then I'll believe a Woman can be true.   

But hold, some Female Advocate I hear,  
Who blames my satire as if too severe.  
If some (says he) are fickle, are there none  
Whose Virtues may for others Faults atone?  
Who built the great Mausoleum, which fame  
Does one of th' Worlds seven wonders justly name?  
But Artimesa whose true Love was such,  
That her own Body was not thought too much  
For her dear Husband's Ashes to find room,  
And to his Memory did Erect that Tomb;  
Nay, in this Vicious Age some few there are,  
Behind that Queen's Example come not far.   

'Tis owned; but such Examples are as scarce  
As five-leged Calves, three Moons, or Blazing-Stars.  
For when into the World such Monsters creep,  
Nature is Retrograde, or half asleep.   

Nature, on whom we justly lay the blame,  
Which so inclines us for to act our shame.  
For after all, how small, alas, the gains  
Will be, 
Sr. C. S.  for which we take such mighty pains!  
But a short Bliss, a nasty fulsome Joy  
Which we regret, e'en while we yet enjoy;  
So trifling, no wise man finds pleasure in it,  
'Tis thought begun and finished in a minute;  
And when the eager short lived transport's o'er,  
We lie like Fishes gasping on the shore.  
Oh Nature, Nature! rigid are thy Laws,  
To which we blindly must submit our Cause.   

Who without horror, or amazement, can  
Survey that hideous Precipice of Man?  
Or with his Pen sufficiently deplore,  
That fatal Gulf we call a Common Whore?  
Who can express her Arts of drawing in  
Unwary Youths, to the beloved sin?  
When caught, with Stratagems she still prepares,  
To keep them blindfold in the fatal Snares.  
So soon she learned the Linnen-lifting Trade,  
That she forgets she ever was a Maid:  
In Arts obscene so very 'xpert and clear,  
The Devil himself must come to learn of her;  
For should all Tricks of Female Lewdness fail,  
They all would be revived in Posture Mall,  
The Sex's Harlequin or Scaramouch,  
Whose various Scenes of Nakedness are such,  
As even makes Nature blush.— But hold my Muse,  
This Subject will too much thy thoughts abuse:  
Let's leave her, who to Lewdness sets no bounds,  
The Lady Abbess of the Fleetstreet Nuns.   

Their Youth with Claps, and Lust just worn away,  
And all their Charms beginning to decay;  
With Mead and Bottle-Beer, they call Cock-Ale,  
And some young Cracks, who waiting never fail,  
Commence Grave Bawds and keep a Vaulting School,  
Where Callow Youths their Health and Money fool;  
While they by Age Venereal Sports forbid,  
Yet highly pleased to see what once they did.  
They live in one continued Scene of Lust,  
Till Pox or Gallows turn them into Dust.   

Kept Mistresses my satire next will find,  
A Trade which is but Whoring much refined;  
A sort of Jilts, so false and so untrue,  
As Whetstones-Park or Fleetstreet never knew.  
In former times they were content and proud,  
With th' usual Pittance which the Spark allowed,  
And took it for a favour seldom known,  
If twice a Year was blest with a new Gown;  
But now so termigant and haughty grown,  
That ere kind Keeper steps into her Bed,  
With Coach and Six she must be furnished;  
Have Settlement and Jointure made her Honour,  
And take such State and Quality upon her;  
Sat in the front of the King's Box at Plays,  
And Rival Lady Duchess to her Face;  
Lavish out more in one Spring-Garden Treat,  
Than would provide a First-Rate Ship with Meat.  
While Liberham her Lust can ne'er suffice,  
But what his unperforming Back denies,  
The Footman and the Coachman's Brawn supplies;  
Such Slaves they are to Interest and Gold,  
That should a man both Impotent and old,  
Worn out with Claps, the Palsy, or the Gout,  
By some device find Bellamira out;  
Bid but a brace of Hundreds more a year,  
Yet this old Lecher will the Jilt prefer  
Before the Youth whose Blood his Passion warms,  
And can each Night with Pleasure fill her Arms.  
Nothing in Nature ever was so common,  
As Jilting, Wanton, Prostituted Woman.   

Nay, those that do to Virtue most pretend,  
Yet seldom are without their private Friend,  
By whom in secret often they're carest,  
For stolen Pleasures often are the best;  
Managed altho' with greatest privacy,  
Yet sometimes get a tell tale Tympany;  
And then the little Infants cries proclaim  
The Father's Frolic, and the Mother's Shame:  
But if the Intreague's so closely carried on,  
That not the least Item of the matter's known;  
How she will of her Virtue loudly prate,  
And blush, yet rightly understand what's what;  
Abroad against Lewdness how she will exclaim,  
Yet daily practise what she does condemn:  
If after all the Damsel seeming chaste,  
The Husband-Lover courts her at the last;  
With the success he will not be denied,  
But have this Modest Virgin for his Bride.  
Lord! what a stir is made with Alum Water,  
And such Astringents for to hide the matter!  
That she who knows as much as did her Mother,  
May seem amazed, and all her Amours smother,  
And in his Arms be fearful of a touch:  
But hold, of this enough, if not too much.   

Of all the Plagues attending human Life,  
The greatest sure is that we call a Wife;  
Nor is there a more pitied Wretch than he,  
That's doomed to Matrimonial Slavery:  
Unquiet days and nights with endless noise,  
Are the sad consequence of such a choice:  
For little did he think what mischiefs lay  
In those hard words, for ever and for aye;  
Those holy Words which the sly Clergy use  
To cajole People in a fatal noose;  
A Charm no after-Magick can untie,  
Till both or either opportunely Die.  
A Wife, what is she but a Wench by Law,  
Which tame Fools Wed to keep themselves in awe?  
For sum up all the Curses which befall  
Poor man, he that's Married has 'em all.   

If Jealousy, that Wildfire of the Brain,  
Does once her serious thinking entertain;  
Bred by Suspicion, and by Fancy Nursed,  
No Tiger ever was so Fierce and Cursed.  
Abroad she like some Hellish Fury seems,  
At home still haunted by her own vain Dreams;  
Unquiet, never with herself at peace,  
Till some kind Rope or Poison give her ease,  
Fit Physic for so desperate a Disease.   

If Appetite to change, or some Disgust,  
Addeth some Fuel to her private Lust;  
It is resolved, nor shall thy Fate, O Man!  
Resist her Vow; for do what ere thou can,  
No Bolts, Bars, Locks, can Fetter Inclination,  
Thou art a Cuckold by Predestination.  
(Hard Fate of Custom, that the Faults of Wife,  
Serve to disgrace the Husband during Life,)  
Either of credit, negligent, she cares  
Not who her loose Intrigues both sees and hears;  
Tho' at Noonday t'r House the Hero's rush,  
And she has long time since forgot to Blush;  
Or else by 'pointment in a Dark Alcove,  
Designed for all the stolen sweets of Love;  
Meets her Gallant, and opening all her Charms,  
Flies eagerly to his desired Arms:  
My Dear, my Love, my Life, my Soul she cries,  
(Still mingling every Period with a Kiss.)  
How blessed am I! methinks in Thee I find  
All that was made to pleasure Womankind.  
Lord! What a Nauseous thing my Husband 's grown.  
Now thou art here, I fancy I have none:  
Thank Fate who this kind meeting did allow,  
We'll drink the Cuckold's Health before we go;  
Faith 'tis an honest dull performing Tool,  
By Nature framed to be a Woman's Fool:  
But thou my Dear haste found the only Art,  
At once to Conquer and Eenjoy my Heart;  
Then smiles: Mean while the Gallant strives to prove  
His Vigour in the brisk assaults of Love.  
Nor is she idle, for some Learned Pen  
Assures us, that in those affairs—  
Women are much more active than the Men.  
The little God allows the finished Bliss,  
A Parting Bottle, and a Parting Kiss;  
And when to meet again, for that's the Text,  
Each Visit being but Prologue to the next;  
But since to see him, Fortune does deny  
His Presence; she by fancy does supply  
Her Pleasure, she with so much Art refines,  
(A Secret still unknown to vulgar minds,)  
That when the Wretch whom she does Husband name,  
Attempts to quench her everlasting Flame;  
Even in the Act of the most kind Embrace,  
When Arms, Legs, Thighs are joined, and Face to Face,  
By powerful Imagination she,  
Her absent Gallant hugs in Effegie,  
And fancy's her dear Cuckold-Spouse is he;  
While poor Cornuto humbly drudges on,  
Till blest (with what he ne'er begat) a Son;  
Then at the Christening, to complete the Jest,  
The modest Gallant's chosen from the rest  
For Godfather, pleased with the double Joy,  
Of Getting and to Name the little Boy.   

Intreaguing is of late so much the Trade,  
That she who Travels not that slip'ry Road,  
Is laughed at by her Sex, as much or more,  
As Cheated Cully is by Bully-Whore.  
Could Grays-Inn Walks, or those of Lincolns-Inn,  
(Places where Women teach their minds to sin,)  
Or Park, or either Playhouse but relate,  
What fine Discourse, what pretty amorous Chat,  
Between the Gallant and the Wife is made.  
When a new Scene of Pleasure's to be laid,  
What strange discoveries would the places make?  
More wonderful than those of Captain Drake;  
Monsters he saw, but rarely here and there,  
But here whole Droves of Cuckolds would appear.  
The patient, angry, and unthinking one,  
Whose Wife's a Jilt, yet he'll believe her none.  
Happy's the Man that's handsomely deceived,  
Whose Wife both Swears and Lies, and is believed.   

Nay, take the best of all these Clogs of Life,  
I mean (if such there be) a virtuous Wife;  
She that with new Endearments every Night,  
Provokes Desire and heightens Appetite:  
Her Female Fondness will destruction prove,  
Like Opium, to the choice delights of Love.  
For what we may at any time enjoy,  
Does even the relish of the Bliss destroy.  
To Pleasure difficulty adds a Gust,  
I cannot Love and yet I must be just;  
So when to duty, inclination turns,  
How faintly th' Hymenial-Taper burns;  
And no Man yet could ever learn the Art,  
T' Insure a Woman's fickle roving Heart.  
That valued thing, her Beauty, may decay,  
And Love will wear insensibly away;  
And when the occasion of the Passion's fled,  
Sure Inclination will be faint or dead;  
But if to'r natural Infirmities,  
Be added some acute and sharp Disease:  
Then Doctors and Apothecaries come,  
And with their Pots and Glasses fill the room.  
Thrice happy he to whom such luck does fall,  
T' embrace Disease, and Wed an Hospital:   

All Swelled with Sighs and Blubbered with her Tears,  
A new made Widow next in view appears,  
Beating her Breast and tearing off her Hair,  
She seems the very Emblem of Despair.  
One would imagine that some mighty matter,  
Was meant by all this hideous noise and clatter;  
When her whole mourning's but a perfect Cheat,  
For she ne'er weeps, but 'tis when others see't.  
Alone her Sorrows to her Hopes give place,  
She's formed the project of a new Embrace;  
And e'er her Husband in the Grave be laid,  
Her Thoughts are of a Second Bridal-Bed.  
A Maiden's Virtue may perhaps be sense,  
But who e'er heard of Widow's continence?  
For their frail Tenements were ne'er designed,  
T endure a Siege so often Undermined.  
If she be Young her Inclinations speak,  
Spite of her Dress of black Bandore and Peak;  
A Garb invented for to let us know,  
That the late Tenants Lease is out below;  
For Pious Inclinations seldom fail,  
To lurk beneath a Youthful Widow's Veil.  
Tell me ye Fortune-Hunters of the Age,  
Who with new Faces every hour engage,  
If for one easy Fond believing Maid,  
Twice fifty Amorous Widows have not fled  
Into your Arms? for 'tis the Creed they hold,  
One Warm Bedfellow's worth a hundred cold.  
The Worn out Soldier finds an Hospital;  
And Withered Age does for an Alms-house call.  
The Charter-house for Gentlemen decayed,  
And Widows were for Younger Brothers made.  
One in an Age perhaps there may be known,  
A Widow laugh at all the Fops in Town:  
Live like th' Ephesian Matron all forlorn,  
Refuse all Visits all Pretenders Scorn.  
Yet there's a time.— But rarely understood,  
When Sorrow gives the Wall to Flesh and Blood;  
Then if the Lucky Minute be but known,  
Ply your Suit warm, she's certainly your own.  
To these poor Souls perhaps I may be civil,  
But Widow's Old and Amorous are the Devil:  
Rather converted into Willow-Switch,  
I'd ev'ry night be Hagg-rid by a Witch,  
The greatest curse I rather would prefer,  
Than enter into loathed Sheets with her.   

As equally offensive to my Arms,  
As an old Maid by Age deprived of charms;  
For tho' she may be vain and think to please,  
Yet Fifty's an Incurable Disease.  
Oh! with what mighty pleasure she'll relate,  
(Like Cavaliers the Wars in forty eight,)  
What fine young Sparks her humble Servants were,  
And how she made them languish with despair▪  
But yet her Virtue was as much above  
Their Flatteries, as they beneath her Love.  
Her Virtue— Damn her with her canting stile,  
When 'twas her Pride preserved her all the while;  
For let all Women till they're weary prate,  
That Honour stands as Sentry at the Gate:  
That Innocence and Virtue are their Crown,  
'Tis Pride, 'tis Pride that keeps their Linen down;  
Their peevish Virtue keeps them chaste in spite,  
By day their Guard and Bugbear all the night:  
True Hypocrites, who what they chiefly covet,  
Seem most t' abhor and hate it when they love it:  
Now nice, then free, now grave, and then more common,  
There is no other Riddle but a Woman.   

Oh, Woman, Woman! who can ere Rehearse,  
In lasting Prose, or much more lasting Verse,  
What mighty Mischiefs have by thee been done,  
Since angry Nature thee to Frame begun?  
Who but an haughty Cleopatra cost;  
Mark Anthony the World? for her 'twas lost.  
Who was't the Roman Capitol Betrayed?  
But a perfidious Whore, some call a Maid?  
Who was the cause of a ten long Years War,  
When Warlike Greeks and Trojans were at Jar,  
But Helen, stole by Paris? when he'd dont,  
Caused a long War upon the score of—  
For her offended Husband, Swore in rage,  
Ten Thousand Lives should ne'er his wrath assuage.  
There never was a Plot or close design,  
The quiet of a State to undermine,  
Or private Family to ruin brought,  
Wherein a Woman was not in the Plot;  
Let who will lead the Van, 'tis plain and clear  
In Mischief, Women still bring up the Rear;  
Yet they of Plots, poor Souls, do know no more,  
Than he that Formed the Project just before.   

Thus we've of Women made a short Survey,  
And lightly touched their Vices in our way;  
But a Fond Lover with his senseless Muse,  
Will all their Frailties and their Faults excuse;  
For is his Mistress ugly beyond thought,  
She is his Queen, his Goddess, and what not?  
If she with Moles and Spots be Larded o'er,  
He'll tell you Venus had a Mole before;  
He for her Limping has some pretty hints,  
She seems to him to Languish when she Squints;  
If Foolish; Lord! how Innocent she is!  
Nay, her Malicious Wit is sure to please;  
If Drowsy-looked, she has the Air of France;  
If Sluttish, 'tis but a-la-Negligence;  
If Tawdry and Ill-drest, she's Modish thought,  
For Love can make a Venus of a Slut;  
If she Sings worse than a Hoarse Smithfield-Truli,  
To here's, the Music of the Spheres is dull;  
If Withered Old, Age for Respect doth call,  
And Bags to make her Young will never fail;  
If Lewd as Cresswell in her youthful days,  
Yet to her Virtue he will Altars raise:  
Let the deluded Fool go on, till's greatest curse  
Be those few words, for better and for worse.   

Oh! were there but some Island vast and wide,  
Where Nature's Dressed in all her choicest Pride;  
The Air Serene, as Thoughts of Angels be,  
Fertile the Ground, Spontaneous and Free;  
Producing all things which we useful call,  
As Edens-Garden did before the Fall;  
Of Choicest Vines an inexhausted store,  
With Swelling Clusters ready to run o'er,  
With their own plenty of the Godlike Juice,  
Which seems in Man a second Soul t' infuse;  
There with a Score of Choice Selected Friends,  
Who know no private Interests nor Ends,  
We'd Live, and could we Procreate like Trees,  
And without Woman's Aid—  
Promote and Propagate our Species;  
The Day in Sports and innocent Delight  
We'd spend, and in soft Slumber waste the Night:  
Sometimes within a private Grotto meet,  
With generous Wines and Fruits ourselves we'd Treat;  
Ambition, Envy, and that Meager Train,  
Should never interrupt our Peaceful Reign;  
Blest with Strong-Health, and a most quiet mind,  
Each day our Thoughts should new Diversion find,  
But never, never think on Womankind.   
FINIS.