THE PLEASURES OF Love and Marriage, A POEM In Praise of the FAIR SEX. In Requital for The Folly of Love, and some other late Satyrs on WOMEN. LONDON: Printed, for H. N. and are to be Sold by R. Baldwin at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-Lane. 1691. Epistle to STELLA. 'TIs well, Dearest Stella, that the lewd World and your Astrophel are not much acquainted: For should they once know how long he has Loved, and how long he has been Happy, and yet that he still continues to Love as well, and be Happy as ever, they'd certainly Point at him in the Streets, and cry, there goes that Monster of a Constant Lover. Fools and Wretches! How can you and I at the same time Despise and Pity 'em? They han't Souls great enough for a constant Passion, and are no more capable of relishing so noble a Joy, than a rude Peasant can the sweetest Delicacies of Wit and Music. The Wondrous weighty Excuse they commonly make use of to cloak their Perfidy and Folly, is, that forsooth, they can find nothing in the Fair Sex that's Worthy their continued Adorations. I'll not deny that many, perhaps, all of the Beau's acquaintance, may be just such Persons as he Describes all Women; for we may safely affirm no others would Ambition the Honour of knowing him. However, Sympathy should, one would think, keep him a little closer to what is so extremely like his dear Self: But the mischief is, like other Persons of his understanding, he must have every day a new Toy or Baby to divert him, or else no quiet is to be expected: And 'tis with him too like them; no sooner is a new play-thing brought within his reach, but the old must be immediately thrown away or knocked o'th' Head. But I have forgot I am speaking to my Stella, not to them, though I have not much more to say to either; only, that I have endeavoured to do her Lovely Sex Justice in the following pages, against the weak Malice and Impudence of some late Scribblers; that I have in the Draught I have here attempted of their Perfections, taken quite contrary Measures to those of the Painter, who from all the Beauties of his Country, made one Venus; since from one of the Graces I have described all the rest; and that Stella need do no more than consult her Glass to learn who that Person is, besides whom, none shall ever have any room in the Heart of Her Happy and Constant Adorer, ASTROPHEL. Stella asked Astrophel what Love was, and for what Reason he Loved her? Who made this following Answer. LOVE is not Wounds, nor Darts, nor Fire, Nor an unbridled wild Desire: That never holds which runs too fast; What's Violent can never last. Love's not a thing that 's bought or Sold, It thinks no Dross so base as Gold; Interest and Fear alike does hate, Superior unto all but Fate. It is not Lust, for Brutes would be, If so, as much in Love as we, Who neither Shape nor Beauty mind, But dully must Preserve their Kind. Where shall this Stranger then be found, In what fantastic Fairy-ground? Is it a true or Fancied bliss? Speak he that knows it what it is! 'Tis when two Kindred-Souls agree, 'Tis Virtue's sweetest Harmony; Virtue the Spring of true Content The Basis, Wit the strong Cement. 'Tis made of tender moving Sighs, Soft grasping Hands, kind melting Eyes, Magic which all our Cares beguiles, Enchanting Glances charming Smiles. Short Tremble, which no fear discover, The Guiltless Blush o'th' happy Lover, These are th' Attendants which declare The little Winged God is there. If this Description won't suffice, I'll read the rest in Stella's Eyes. That the exactest Map will prove, And therefore Stella I must ever Love. THE PLEASURES OF LOVE, etc. DIvinest Sex, composed of purer Mould! (We only are the Ore, but you the Gold.) How shall I justly Treat so vast a Theme, Where meanly to Commend were to Blaspheme? How shall I give your Virtues half their due, In Living Verse, and Numbers worthy you? Fair Stella, thy soft Sex's Pride and Joy, The noblest Trophy of the winged Boy: Bright Charmer of my Soul, whose very Name Inspires Delight eternal as our Flame. No longer I'll the noble Task refuse, If with one gentle Smile you'll Tune my Muse. The kindly Spring does Nature's Face restore, And dress a new, but Stella can do more; Where nothing Gay e'er flourished, spite of Fate, Her powerful Smile can what she please Create. As, Thebes! thy wondrous Walls did once aspire At the command of great Amphion's Lyre. And now the Inspiration does begin, I feel, I rising feel the God within, A kindly Warmth, which does with that agree When first my charming Conqu'ress wounded me, (So near a kin are Love and Poetry) Some Angel has with Nectar touched my Tongue, As Spencer's, when his Rosaline he sung. Snarl on this Age! the next just praise will give, And this, as long as the Fair Sex shall live. When Man did first from Native Turf arise, He all around him cast his wondering Eyes. Absolute Monarch than himself might call, And under his great Maker, Lord of all: The Royal Lion willing Homage paid, The mighty Elephant Obeisance made; Ambition could not find a thing to ask, And Pleasure had as difficult a Task; His most Luxurious wish could seek no more, When all Fair Eden was his own before. Yet did he sad and Melancholy rove, By each clear stream, through every lonely Grove, And thought he wanted something still to Love. When to the Crystal Brooks he did repair, To view in vain his watery Image there, He saw the Amorous Palms outstretching wide Their Levy Hands to reach the distant side. No Fruit they bore, unless their Like they found, But dropped their Baren Blossoms on the Ground. If to the Woods, if to the Plains he went, What e'er he meets augments his Discontent. Here Faithful Turtles Court, and there he sees, Through all the Grove, in all the Shrubs and Trees, The Feathered People lodge their Families. The bolder Male abroad for Food does roam, And leaves th' Industrious Female close at home▪ But every evening returns to wont Rest, And Perches near her in her Downy Nest; Like seeks its Like, of every Kind ' s a Pair, He saw no Single, fablous Phoenix there. Nor that for which much more he'd blest his Fate, Which all besides enjoyed, a gentle Mate. Weary with seeking what could not be found. He throws himself upon the Verdant Ground; There sadly leaned on his kind Mother's Breast, He with a Sigh composed his Eyes to rest; Where in a wondrous Vision's mystic Shade He saw that glorious Creature Woman Made. How fine a Turn appeared in every part? The Beauteous Masterpiece of Heavenly Art: All the exact Proportions sweeter seemed, And Man himself above himself esteemed. Far more of Angel in her Face and Eyes, The fittest Tenant she for Paradise: He waked and clasped the Air; she from him flies, Flies, yet looks back (so soon that Art she knew,) And with a Smile invites him to pursue. On rushed the Eager Youth to Bliss unknown, And quickly thought the Beauteous Prey his own; Till with a Frown his boldness she reproves, At his Fair Captives Feet he knelt and Loves: He Loves, she Grants, and Nature smiles to see, In her best works so sweet a Harmony. The Groves all Whisper, and the Birds all Sing, Murmur each Crystal Brook and Silver Spring; No Wind but amorous Zephyrs Spicy Breeze, Which into gentle Motion Fans the Waves and Trees. What if this Calm was, ah! too quickly passed, This more than Mortal Bliss too great to last, If the false Serpent, Woman did deceive, And flily ruined all the World in Eve? 'Twas her ungrateful Lover let her stray Through an unknown and a Forbidden way; Careless what Company she chose or Place, A true Forefather of his Perjured Race. When Surfeited with too much happiness, His Woman soon discovered the Disease, Would be a Goddess, not to know, but Please, Thus when at last by Hellish Policy, She Plucked and Tasted that unlucky Tree; Without her Adam she refused the Throne, And scorned to be a Deity alone; The choicest Fruit she in her Bosom stored, And bore with greedy steps to her Loved Lord. More Guilty far than his mistaken Bride, He knew the fatal Price, yet Eat and Died. He Died, tho' favoured with a long Reprieve, Her Love another Paradise could give, And made him, even when Fallen, content to Live. Hence sprung a Race so very Fair and Good, No wonder Heaven was left, and Angels Wooed. Those Sons of God in all their Pomp of Light, Confessed they found a Mortals Eyes as bright. What foolish Man despised, with Joy Embraced, Mended his humble Stock and Heroes raised. In Politics and Architecture Skilled, Men Boast they Empires raise and Cities Build: Monsters and Thiefs are to Destruction hurled By them; 'tis they pretend to Rule the World; When Women kept it in its constant state, While they their first fair Copy imitate, Encourage Man in all his sweat and toils, And richly pay his Pains with Love and Smiles. 'Tis Woman makes the ravished Poet Write, 'Tis Lovely Woman makes the Soldier Fight; The Merchant Sails to China or Peru, Farther than Janson or Mercator knew; And Caravans through Sandy Deserts room, But to the same account their Labours coam, To bring a Mistress Silks or Spices home. If them with welcome Smiles she's pleased to meet, Down go their Gold and Jewels at her Feet. Should that soft Sex refuse the World to Bless, Twoved soon be Chaos all, or Wilderness; A Herd, without Civility or Rules, A Drove of Drinking, Cheating, Fight Fools; All Mad to kick each other off the Stage, Their very Race destroyed in one short Age. 'Twas Beauty first made Laws, did Monsters bind, Reformed the World and civilised Mankind; Taught us at first to turn the Fruitful Soil, And with glad Harvest recompense the Toil, Fair Ceres gave us Corn, Minerva Oil. For Brutal Force which oft true worth supplies, The other Sex may that Monopolise; But which is the best Title, Bold or Wise? Presence of Mind, Invention quick and free, Unforced, and Natural Ingenuity; Foresight and Caution, Ills unseen to ward, Ready for th' worst, and still upon their Guard. Here Man must own, though scarce without a Blush, They rather do excel than rival us. As useful and more nimble all their Powers, Their Judgement sharp, and earlier Ripe than ours. Of Fancy they've an unexhausted Mine, A Quarry where the richest Jewels shine, Their Wit is all their own, and all Divine. Who has not heard of great Orinda's Fame, Pride of her own, and our vain Sex's shame, To every Sister Muse a darling Name? Herself a Muse.— Whom late Posterity just Praise shall give, Scarce Cowleys Sacred Works will longer live. Nor had soft Afra less Immortal proved, Had that fond Sapph kept her Heart unmoved, And had she not too many Phaons' Loved, Whether with fair Oenonoe she deplored The broken Faith of her ungrateful Lord; Or in the Tragic Buskin swept the Stage, Or in sharp satire lashed th' obnoxious Age, Or aims at something more Sublime and High, When Caesar's Conquer or when Caesar's die. Till we her Match can find, her Fate we'll mourn, Light fall the Dust on gentle Afra's Urn! " What! Woman Wit? some Witty Spark will say, " Egad, not till she has Read my last New Play. " The Dullest things on Earth, below a Pen, " Heavy as Priests, or old fat Aldermen. Yes Witty Sir! the Bays so much their due, They'll wear in spite of Impudence and you. If Wit be Nature's writing Copy fair, Where shall we find it neater Drawn than there? Show me a Fop who seven long years in France, Has learned to play the Fool, and Cringe and Dance, Can teach 'em the sweet Arts of Complaisance. Their Sex the speediest best Instructions lends, The best of Tutors and the best of Friends. Man's like a Lute unstrung, until he be By Conversation turned to Harmony; And that's itself, if Woman from it stays, As dull as when an ill Musician Plays. Woman's the Salt of Life, without a Grain Of which, attempts for Mirth were all in vain; Where e'er she treads like Sunshine guilds the ground And throws an air of Life and Pleasure round. A Sympathetic Fire, whose very sight Clears all the Rust of Man, and makes him Bright. " But they a hundred thousand knicknacks wear, " Exalted Top-knot Christians now they are, " And grow almost as Proud as Lucifer. We none would wrong, but give the Devil his due, Suppose for once your Accusation true; Where did they learn their Pride, unless from you? If they're infected, 'tis with your Disease; Unless fantastic, they can never please. Is Pride then seated in the Mind or Dress; Have you not often seen, if you'd confess, A humble Pomp, and a proud Nastiness? With what should they adorn themselves, and how? Must Mother Eves thin Fig-leaves only do, Or may they wear a Leathern-Apron too? Or dressed in honest Homespun Country Grace? If you yourselves know what will please you, say, That all the Sex may instantly obey. Nothing, alas, which feeble Art can lend, Can unsophisticated Beauty mend. Is Phoebus by the Clouds he wears more bright? Unarmed that Sex most dangerously fight. How well becomes a Horse his noble Pride, Since every Beggar else would up and ride? That sometimes will instead of Virtue serve, 'Tis a just Sense of what their Sex deserve; But yours more unexcusable will prove, They only love themselves, you think that you they love. Nor are you more uncivil or unjust, In fixing here the ugly Brand of Lust. Those whom deserved slights and losses vex, Invent new Sins and throw 'em on the Sex; More monstrous Crimes than e'er Hot Asia knew, Tho if 'twere possible they should be true, Italy equals, and exceeds 'em too. Whose thrifty Wickedness the Sex forsakes, And of those Beauteous Fields a Sodom makes. When, tame Vesuvius! shall thy Thunder rise, And purge those foul infected Earth and Skies, Thy Streams beyond th' affrighted Tiber shine, And justly punish hotter Flames than thine? if any left, reserve 'em still for those Who are the Lovely Sexes causeless Foes. How many a faithful Wife and generous Maid When to a Ravishers hot Lust betrayed, Have gladly fled to Death's cold Arms for aid? How bravely could the Fair Lucretia Dye, Rather than she'd survive her Chastity? But ah! she did the fatal Stab misplace, Her part she had acted with a better Grace, To've Killed the Tyrant in his loathed Embrace; There left him in his own Hot Gore to role, And at the wound let out his Lustful Soul. In vain the Spark may-grin, in vain he'll Swear, " Such Miracles are Ceased, or never were. " And that no Woman he could ever find, " But if the opportunity were kind, " Would be so too.— Perhaps he once is right; He ne'er Assaults but where the Walls are slight; True Bullies will with none but Cowards Fight. A Virtuous Woman values Fame too high, To let the bold Assailant come so nigh, The Fort's half gone that Treats with th' Enemy. That Town is won which ere th' Attack is made, Has lost its Counterscarp and Palizade. When the White-Flag you see at first hung out, You're wondrous Daring then, and wondrous Stout; When once you but discover those within, By their faint Fire have a low Magazine, A slender stock of Chastity in store, Your Oaths and Curses then like Canon roar, You storm like Devils, and cry a Whore a Whore. If you a Virtuous Woman tempt in vain, Who still repels you with deserved disdain, Who all your weak designs secure can mock, Firm seated on an Alabaster Rock. Her Snowy Bosom not more pure and fair, Than the white Guest that still inhabits there, Repulsed at last with just Despair and Shame, Your Poisonous Tongues at least will blast her Fame; If her you can't, you'll ruin her Good Name. And to th' ill-natured World with Oaths protest, All her Resistance was design or Jest, You found her Woman, just like all the rest. But say what Woman, search all ages o'er Debauched a Man, search Hell's unnumbered store, Who learned it not from that false Sex before. Who, can they any easy Fool Debauch, Most generously undo, and then reproach, And like th' Inhabitants of endless Flame, Over the wretch insult they helped to Damn. To whom the Perjured Villains Kneeled and Swore, But a few days perhaps or hours before, Like a true Spaniel; licked her Hand or Glove, And Vowed eternal Constancy and Love. Marriage is a dull Ceremony, made By hungry Priests of old, to mend their Trade. 'Tis Love's the thing, what matter for the Name? Could they suspect their Faith as not the same, Or when they'd all the Stakes they'd not play out Can you be so ungenerous and unkind? Then with ten thousand Oaths his Faith he'll bind; Perjured and Damned so often and so deep, The Devil himself th' Accounts can hardly keep. Thus silly Flies by Cobweb-vows betrayed, Their Virtue lose, and lose the name of Maid. But then how soon another Face is shown? ere the third night she's stale and nauseous grown, The Cur has now some other Games to play; No more her Whistle or her Call 't obey, HE intends, but shakes his Tail and runs away. To Brother Brutus' will of her Favours boast, And Write her Name on every Pissing-Post. Who wonders if a Shop-Lift hates the Jail, Or strolling Gipsies at the Justice Rail? If an old Usurer 'twould not well content To hear a Bill was passed for Four per Cent, And if he all berogued the Parliament. And who, that knows the World, will wonder more That those at Matrimony rail, who Whore? Call the poor Husband Monkey, Ass, or Dog, And jeer his Neck worn with the Wedlock-Clog, While freely they o'er tops of Houses strolling, Venture their Bones each Night a Caterwouling. Besides a Ridg, or into Chimney's peep, Through Cellar, or through Garret-Windows creep; Expose themselves to Falls, or Guns, or Traps, And twenty other unforeseen Mishaps, All in the hot pursuit of Whores and Claps. Ruin their Health, their Honour and Estate, To Buy Repentance at so dear a rate; For when Old Age with Palsyed steps draws on, Some ten perhaps, or twenty Years too soon, And long ere this the last dear Acre gone. Show me a Thing whom more the World despise, Or more a Wretch than the old Lecher is! 'Twould even a common Woman's passion move, To see th' Old Doting Epicure make Love. Restrain her struggling Laughter she that can, A Lousy, Gouty, spawling, poor Old-Man; All over Lame, his Hips, his Hands, his Feet, Fit for no other but a Winding- Sheet. " True cries the Spark, but I have time to spare, " Am Young and Free, and unconfined as Air; " I'll Drink full Bowls of Pleasure while I may, " And treat Life kindly, since so short its stay, " And sip the sweets, and bask in the warm Beams of day, " Whilst i'm awake i'll to myself be kind, " And Reason too for all that I can find, " Since all's a long, a dark, eternal sleep behind. Sir, are you sure of that? Nay, never Swear, You think none ere come thence that once were there; How should you know it then? Deny it not, By night and sleep you mean you know not what. " Well, if their should, as the dull Clergy prate, " Be any Future World or After State, " Sure that good Being who did all Created, " Rewards and Pains distributes justly there, " And Man for necessary Ills will spare, " Nor will his Punishment be too Severe. " For what's more hard to vanquish than reprove, " The natural Fault, if such it be, of Love? " Are we into our Ruin thus decoyed? " Was Nature made only to be destroyed? " For what is Good, if not to be Enjoyed? " And what is Good, or where, unless 'tis Common? " And show me any Good on Earth like Woman! So now the Quarrel's plainer than before, 'Tis with the Virtuous Woman, not the Whore. Well Argued for a Beast, we needs must own, To whom no Principle but Sense is known; They neither Number nor Distinguish can, (Those are the Sole Prerogatives of Man) But rush with undiscerning Rage, like you, On the first Object that presents to view. Themselves with Shape or Beauty ne'er perplex, But just like you, ' r in Love with all the Sex. Thus they, but those with reasoning minds endued, Suspend a while when a Good Object's viewed, And ask, if a Proportionable Good? Sense is enough where Senses only Woe, But Reasoning Lovers must have Reason too, No wonder if the Body quickly cloy, But Minds are infinite, and like themselves Enjoy. There you may Travel still from Pole to Pole, Where Winds can carry, or where Waves can roll, For all the World is Pictured in a Soul; An unexhausted sweet Variety, That ne'er degenerates to Satiety, But outlasts Time, and measures with Eternity. Can any thing in this dull World pretend, Than Wit and Reason greater Bliss to lend? And Wit and Reasons pleasures never end. If there's a farther Pleasure, 'tis a friend. Whom mutual Griefs and mutual Joys may move, With whom we all the Sweets of Life may prove, Society and Sympathy and Love. If each of these so Charming is alone, Who would not gladly listen to be shown, Where, without fail, to find 'em all in one. At once the vast united Joys to prove, Of Sense and Reason, Nature, Friendship, Love? For such a Bliss, who'd not the World despise, If such a Bliss he might Monopolise? Yet need not his poor Neighbour at him grudge, Tho he has all, t'other may have as much: Fire, Air, Earth, Water, thus we common call, Yet 'tis not all to some, but some to all, " Woven not this Phoenix set the World at strife " To enjoy't? No, there's no danger, 'tis a Wife. " A Wife, the Spark replies, the Name's as dull " As Country Squire, or sage Right Worshipful. " Rather than that, even let the World stand still, " Or Porters drudge to keep it on the wheel. " Give me your French Ragoo! your racy Miss, " I hate a Wife, that English fulsome Dish, " Nor know n●● care whether 'tis Flesh or Fish. " On such Gross Food our Grandsires used to Dine, " The Coxcombs knew not what was to Eat Fine: " The World Sir now is mightily improved, " 'Tis not the age in which their Wives they Loved. Degenerate Race! Your own and Nature's Foe: Ah! that your Fathers never had done so! And yet in truth 'twould bear a long debate, If this whole Age be'nt illegitimate? By their loose Sites with Rage and Brandy hot, In Leagures on the Sutler's Wives begot. Since nothing they but Drabs and Drinking mind, So true the Proverb, Cat will after kind. Tho some there are, so very good and few, That if enough might Plant the World anew. Not made like those Sown on Earth's fertile Face, Old Pyrrhu's and Deucalion's Stony Race, But warmed with gentle Fire and gentle Love, As Pure and Constant as the Lamps above. By Law and Inclination doubly joined, Both acted by one Sympathetick Mind. Whom Wedlock's Silken Chains as softly tie, As that which when asunder snapped, we die, Which makes the Soul and Body's wondrous harmony. Thrice Happy they in those soft Fetters tied, The Fatal Sisters only can divide; Who for no other Mastery ever strove, But whether of the two should better Love, As kind as when the Youth did first pretend, (Passions on Virtue founded never end) For though in Age their Tops less verdant show, Their flour'shing twisted Roots still stronger grow. No churlish Feuds disturb their blessed Abodes, All calm, as are the Dwellings of the Gods. No little peevish Quarrels enter there, No noise but Sighs which Fan the Amorous Air, And all like Tempe still, and all like Tempe Fair. Jealousies Banished thence, and Rage and Pride, And all the Torments of the World beside, Sweet Peace their close Attendant, Love their Guide. All the white Passions that delight to rest, With Innocence in every constant Breast; Pleasures which Gild, nor Time, nor Age destroy, Grateful Vicissitudes of Hope and Joy. Glad Lambent Flames, but no wild wand'ring Fire, A still Possessed, and still renewed Desire; The Parent that, Delight the Child of Love, Complacency, the Heaven of those above. Wisely has Fate to to half the World denied, (Almost perhaps to t'other half beside) That more than mortal Bliss, a Virtuous, Lovely Bride Since knew they once the Joys of Loving well, And were they all but blest like Astrophel; Even for Elysium sure they'd hardly care, But spite of Lethe live unhappy there. Whoever of the two first seized should be, Whether 'twere Orpheus or Eurydice; Tother would follow, either to retrieve Far more than half their Soul, or with 'em live. One than could never Die without a Pair, The Indian Wives Examples, now so rare Would then be owned, and practised every where. Let others Rally, Envy, Smile or Chide, Me from my Stella may no day divide. Not even the last, 'twould be Impiety, To think I'd wish to outlive her, or she To live one single moment more than me. Would some of you, ye gentle Powers above, Who favour Innocence and Virtuous Love; Would you blessed Astrophel's Petition grant, For which thus low he knelt your Supplicant. His Modest wishes should not aim too high, Thus only he'd ask to Live, and thus to Die. After a Life in Virtuous Acts employed, And Bliss, that leaves no Sting or Shame, enjoyed, (Double your Gifts, ye Gods! If aught you'd give) To cheerful Age may He and Stella live, Till of their Lives no Friend is weary grown, Nor they, or of each others, or their own. May they (but sure that wish scarce needs) Love on With mutual Flames till their last Sand is gone; Then gently leaning on each others Breast, Slumber away in Smiles to softer Rest. Mistaken World to envy Kings, when we May at far less expense far happier be. All those gay trifles which so weigh'em down, Their Robes and heavy, wondrous heavy Crown; Their Globe, their Sceptre and their Diadem, With ease a happy Lover can contemn, Poor cumbered things, by Heaven I pity them. So great their Toil, their thankless Task so hard, Ungrateful Towns to Save, and Kingdoms Guard, So great their Task, so rare their just Reward. What can a worthy Reparation prove? What but a Beauty worth a Prince's Love? If in ten Ages one by Fate is blest, One Favourite Prince, who all his Life redressed, The world's wide wrongs, and succoured the distressed " True Successor o'th' great Herculean race, " Formed by the Gods, fell Monsters to debase; If one with such an Empress favoured be, As suits his Inclination and Degree, Worthy to fill a share of Majesty. Who with him jointly feels each Joy and Smart, True partner of his Empire, Cares and Heart; If Business he of one short Hour beguile, And lets th' expecting World stand still the while; If Great Augustus from the Field retires, And Gracious Gloriana's Eyes admires; The Fates of Empires will not let him stay, He in a few short moments must away; Some other Kingdoms his Defence do crave, Imploring that he'd them vouchsafe to Save; Their Patron and their Guardian Friend esteem, And lift their Dying Eyes to Heaven and Him; Or sighing Europe of her wrongs complains, Shows her Imprisoned Hands, and begs he'd break her Chains, Deliver all her Injured Sons and Her, And take just Vengeance on the Ravisher. Whilst now he plunges through the frighted Boyn, Now the mosel, and Meause, and headlong Rhine; A thousand Fates around him does despise, And sends far more among his Enemies; He keeps far off our Danger at a Bay, While we securely here sit still and Pray. Taste the sweet Spring, and new recovering Groves, And through our Peaceful Plains Record our happy Loves. While Gloriana fills so well his Throne, As either were designed to Reign alone; Dazzles Spite's Eyes, stops Envy's stinking Breath, A second Loved, Adored Elizabeth; Had She been Born where Rome's Religion sways, And all the World their Mitred Prince obeys; They one St. more would from their Mass-book New Ave-Mary's they'd repeat to Her, tear, And place Her second in the Calendar; No other Saints auspicious aid they'd crave, Her single Worth and Merits they'd believe Sufficient all Her Rank and Sex to Save. While She the Kingdom's Interest still Improves, While She Her Royal Lord so dearly Loves, While She'll so Fair, so Just a Pattern give, Her Subjects must be blest, if they'd but like Her Live. 'Tis flat Disloyalty that Sex to blame, Who now can so Divine a Princess Claim: None sure will do't, but those who burst for Spite, None but despairing Teague or Jacobite. For those who in their rage persist and will The vengeance of a Loyal Lover feel; Who still at the Fair Sex will rail and curse, Be this their Doom, till we can find a worse: Be this their Doom, to Love and to Despair, The Ridicule of some Fantastic Fair; With Folly, Jealousy, and Pride possessed, And all the Faults are Charged on all the rest; So fond fickle that she does not know What she has promised half an Hour ago. (I need not wish a Mortal more perplexed) Nor better what she means to do the next; Still discontented, sour, morose, and vain, Triumphing in her tame Adorers pain; Jilting him to his Face, but not too long deceive, Lest he too happy should himself believe. May all the Infamy they ever cast Upon the Charming Sex rebound at last On their own cursed Heads; their Folly, Pride, Rage, Lust, and every poisonous Ill beside▪ May Envy gnaw their Entrails, never free From Eating Spite, and Cankered Jealousy; Through every Vein may the sharp Venom roll, Diseases rack their Body, Rage's their Soul, Till with their Sins and Sores alike oppressed, They Rotting to the Dunghill crawl for rest; Drop in the Streets, like Poisoned Rats from Shelves, Or in some Whores old Garters Hang themselves. FINIS.