Love given over: OR, A satire AGAINST THE Pride, Lust, and Inconstancy, etc. OF WOMAN.  
Amended by the AUTHOR.  
LONDON, Printed for R. Bentley and J. Tonson. 1686.   

TO THE READER.  
THE Pious Endeavours of the Gown, have not proved more ineffectual towards reclaiming the Errors of a vicious Age, than satire (the better way, tho' less practised) the amendment of Honesty, and good Manners among us. Nor is it a wonder, when we consider that Women, (as if they had the ingredient of Fallen-Angel in their composition) the more they are lashed, are but the more hardened in Impenitence: and as Children in some violent Distemper, commonly spit out those cherishing Cordials, which, if taken, might chase away the Malady: So they (inspired as 'twere with a natural averseness to Virtue) despise that wholesome Counsel, which is Religiously designed for their future good, and happiness. Judge then, if satire ever had more need of a sharper sting than now: when he can look out of his Cell on no side, but sees so many Objects beyond the reach of indignation. Nor is it altogether unreasonable for me (while others are lashing the Rebellious Times into Obedience) to have one fling at Woman the Original of Mischief. I'm sensible I might as well expect to see Truth and Honesty uppermost in the World, as think to be free from the Bitterness of their Resentments: But I have no reason to b● concerned at that; since I'm certain my design's as far from offending the good, (if there are any amongst 'em that can be said to be so) as those few that are good, would be offended at their Reception into the Eternal Inhabitations of Peace, to be Crowned there with the Sacred Reward of their Labours. As for those that are ill, If it Gall them, it succeeds according to my wish; for I have no other design but the amendment of Vice, which if I could but in the least accomplish, I should be well pleased; and not without reason too; for it must needs be some satisfaction to a young unskilful Archer, to hit the first Mark he ever aimed at.   

Love given over: OR, A satire AGAINST WOMAN.  

AT length from Love's yile Slavery I am free,  
And have regained my ancient Liberty:  
I've shaken those Chains off which my bondage wrought,  
Am free as Air, and unconfined as thought;  
For faithless Sylvia I no more adore,  
Kneel at her feet, and pray in vain no more;  
No more my Verse shall, her fled worth proclaim,  
And with soft praises celebrate her Name:  
Her frowns do now no awful terrors bear;  
Her Smiles no more can cure or cause despair  
I've banished her for ever from my Breast,  
Banished the proud Invader of my rest;  
Banished the Tyrant-Author of my woes,  
That robbed my Soul of all its sweet repose:  
Not all her treach rous Arts, bewitching Wiles,  
Her Sighs, her Tears, nor her deluding Smiles,  
Shall my eternal Resolution move,  
Or make me talk▪ or think, or dream of Love.  
The whining Curse I've banished from my Mind,  
And with it, all the thoughts of Womankind  
Come then my Muse, and since th' occasion's fair,  
Against that Sex proclaim an endless War;  
Which may renew as still my Verse is read,  
And live, when I am mingled with the dead.   

Woman! by heavens the very Name's a Crime,  
Enough to blast, and to debauch my Rhyme.  
Sure Heaven itself (entranced) like Adam lay,  
Or else some banished Fiend usurped the sway  
When Eve was formed; and with her, ushered in  
Plagues, Woes, and Death, and a new World of Sin.  
The fatal Rib was crooked and unev'n,  
From whence they have their Crablike Nature given;  
Averse to all the Laws of Man, and Heaven.   

O Lucifer, thy Regions had been thin,  
Were't not for Woman's propagating Sin:  
'Tis they alone that all true Vices know;  
And send such Throngs down to thy Courts below:  
Nay there is hardly one among 'em all,  
But Envies Eve the glory of the Fall:  
Be cautious then, and guard your Empire well;  
For should they once get power to rebel;  
They'd surely raise a Civil-War in Hell,  
Add to the pains you feel; and make you know,  
weare here above, as Cursed as you below.   

But we may thank ourselves; is there a Dog,  
Who, when he may have freedom, wears the Clog?  
But Man, vain Man, the more imprudent Beast,  
Drags the dull weight when he may be released:  
May such (and Ah! too many such we see)  
While they live here, just only live, to be  
The mark of Scorn; Contempt, and Infamy.  
But if the Tide of Nature boisterous grow,  
And would Rebelliously its Banks overflow,  
Then choose a Wench, who (full of lewd desires)  
Can meet your floods of Love with equal fires;  
She only damns the Soul: but an ill Wife  
Damns that, and with it all the Joys of Life:  
And what vain Blockhead is so dull, but knows,  
That of two Ills the least is to choose?   

But now, since Woman's Lust I chance to name,  
Woman's unbounded Lust I'll first proclaim:  
And show that our lewd Age has brought to view,  
What Sodom, when at worst, had blushed to do.  
True, I confess that Rome's Imperial Whore,  
(More Famed for Vice, than for the Crown she wore)  
Into the public Stews (disguised) would thrust,  
To quench the raging Fury of her Lust;  
And by such Actions bravely got her Name,  
Born up for ever on the Wings of Fame:  
Yet this is poor, to what our Modern Age  
Has hatched, brought forth, and acted on the Stage:  
Which for the Sex's glory I'll rehearse;  
And make that deathless, as that makes my Verse.   

Who knew not (for to whom was she unknown)  
Our late prodigious Bewley? (true, she's gone  
To answer for the numerous Ills she's done;  
For if there is no Hell for such as she,  
Heaven is unjust, and that it cannot be.)  
As Albion's Isle fast rooted in the Main,  
Does the rough Billows raging force disdain,  
Which tho' they foam, and with loud terror roar,  
Yet they can never reach beyond their shore.  
So she with Lust's Enthusiastic Rage,  
Sustained all the salt Stallions of the Age.  
Whole Legions she encountered, Legions tired;  
Insatiate yet, still fresh Supplies desired.  
Illustrious Bawd! may thy name live, and be  
Abhorred by all, as 'tis abhorred by me;  
Thou foremost in the Race of Infamy!  
But Bodies must decay; for 'tis too sure,  
There's nothing from the Jaws of Time secure.  
Yet, when she found that she could do no more,  
When all her Body was one putrid Sore,  
Studded with Pox, and Ulcers quite all o'er;  
Even then, by her delusive treacherous Wiles,  
(For that's most specious still, which most beguiles)  
She enroled more Females in the List of Whore,  
Than all the Arts of man e'er did before  
Pressed with the ponderous guilt, at length she fell,  
And through the solid Centre sunk to Hell:  
The murmuring Fiends all hovered round about,  
And in hoarse howls did the great Bawd salute;  
Amazed to see a sordid lump of Clay,  
Stained with more various bolder Crimes than they:  
Nor were her torments less; for the dire Train,  
Soon sent her howling through the rolling flame,  
To the sad seat of everlasting pain.  
Creswel, and Stratford, the same Path do tread,  
In Sin's black Volume so profoundly read,  
That whensoe'er they die, we well may fear,  
The very tincture of the Crimes they bear,  
With strange infusion may inspire the dust,  
And in the Grave commit true acts of Lust.   

And now, if so much to the World's revealed,  
Reflect on the vast Stores that lie concealed,  
How, oft into their Closets they retire,  
Where flaming Dil— does inflame desire,  
And gentle Lap-d— s feed the amorous fire.  
How cursed is Man! when Brutes his Rivals prove,  
Even in the sacred Business of his Love!  
Unless Religion pious thoughts instill,  
Show me the Woman that would not be ill,  
If she conveniently could have her will.  
And when the Mind's corrupt, we all well know,  
The actions that proceed from't must be so.  
Their guilt's as great who any ill would do,  
As theirs who actually that ill pursue,  
That they would have it so their Crime assures;  
Thus, if they durst, most Women would be Whores.  
That is (and 'tis what all men will allow)  
There's many would be so that yet seem virtuous now,   

Forgive me Modesty, if I have been  
In any thing I have mentioned here, Obscene;  
Yet stay— Why should I ask that Boon of thee,  
When 'tis a doubt if such a thing there be?  
For Woman, in whose Breasts thou'rt said to reign,  
And show the glorious Conquests thou dost gain,  
Despises thee, and only Courts the Name:  
(Sounds, tho' we cannot see, yet we may hear,  
And wonder at their echoing through die Air)  
Thus, led by what delusive Fame imparts,  
We think thy Throne's erected in their Hearts;  
But weare deceived, as faith we ever were,  
For if thou art, I'm sure thou art not there:  
Nothing in those vile Mansions does reside,  
But rank Ambition, Luxury, and Pride.  
Pride is the Deity they most adore,  
Hardly their own dear selves they cherish more:  
Survey their very Looks, you'll find it there;  
How can you miss it when 'tis every where?  
Some through all hunted Natures Secrets trace,  
To fill the Furrows of a wrinkled Face;  
And after all their toil (pray mark the Curse)  
've only made that which was bad, much worse.  
As some in striving to make ill Coin pass,  
Have but the more discovered that 'twas Brass.  
Nay those that are reputed to be fair,  
And know how courted, how admired they are,  
Who one would think God had formed so complete,  
They had no need to make his Gifts a Cheat;  
Yet they too in adulteration share,  
And would in spite of Nature, be more fair.  
Deluded Woman! tell me, where's the gain,  
In spending Time upon a thing so vain?  
Your precious Time, (O to yourselves unkind!)  
When 'tis uncertain 've an hour behind  
Which you can call your own; For tho' y'are Fair,  
And beautiful as Guardian Angels are;  
Adorned by Nature, fitted out by Art,  
In all the Glories that delude the Heart:  
Yet tell me, tell; have they the power to save?  
Or can they privilege you from the Grave?  
The Grave, which favours not the Rich or Fair;  
Beauty with Beast lies undistinguished there.   

But hold— methinks I'm interrupted here,  
By some vain Fop I neither Love nor Fear;  
Who in these words his weakness does reveal,  
And hurts that Wound which he should strive to heal.   

Soft Sir, methinks you too inveterate grow;  
And more your Envy, than Discretion show.  
Who'd Blame the Sun because he shines so bright,  
That we can't gaze upon his dazzling light,  
When at the selfsame time he cheers the Earth,  
And gives the various Plants, and Blossoms birth?  
How does the Winter look, that naked thing,  
Compared to the Fresh Glories of the Spring?  
Rivers adorn the Earth; the Fish, the Seas;  
Flowers, and Grass the Meadows; Fruit, the Trees;  
The Stars, the Fields of Air through which they ride;  
And Woman all the works of God beside:  
Yet base detracting Envy won't allow  
They should adorn themselves; then pray, Sir, now  
Produce some Reasons why y'are so severe;  
For, envious as you are, you know they're Fair.   

And so were Sodom's Apples heretofore,  
But they were still found rotten at the Core;  
Nature without dispute made all things fair;  
And dressed 'em in an unaffected Air:  
The Earth, the Meadows, Rivers, every Flower,  
Proclaim the skill of their great Maker's power;  
But they, as they were made at first, remain,  
And all their ancient Lustre still retain.  
Nothing but vain fantastic Woman's changed;  
And through all Mischief's various Mazes ranged:  
Yet that they're beautiful is not denied;  
But tell me, are the Unhandsome free from pride?  
No, no; the Straight, the Crooked, Ugly, Fair,  
Have all, promiscuously, an equal share.  
Thus, Sir, you see how they're estranged and strayed,  
From what by Nature they at first were made.   

Already many of their Crimes I've named,  
Yet that's untold for which they most are Famed:  
A sin (tall as the Pyramids of old)  
From whose aspiring top we may behold  
Enough to damn a World!— what should it be,  
But (Curse upon the name!) Inconstancy?  
O tell me, does the World those Men contain  
(For I have looked for such, but looked in vain)  
Who ne'er were drawn into that fatal Snare?  
Fatal I call it, for he's cursed that's there.  
Inspired then by my Fellow-sufferers wrongs,  
And glad I am, the Task to me belongs;  
I'll bring the Fiend unmasked to humane sight,  
Tho' hid in the black Womb of deepest Night.  
No more the Wind, the faithless Wind, shall be  
A Simile for their Inconstancy,  
For that sometimes is fixed; but Woman's Mind  
Is never fixed, or to one Point inclined:  
Less fixed than in a Storm the Billows are,  
Or trembling Leaves the Aspen-Tree does bear,  
Which ne'er stand still, but (every way inclined)  
Turn twenty times with the least breath of Wind  
Less fixed than wanton Swallows while they play  
In the Sunbeams, to welcome in the Day:  
Now yonder, now they're here, as soon are there,  
In no place long, and yet are every where.  
Like a tossed Ship their Passions fall and rise,  
One while you'd think it touched the very Skies,  
When straight upon the Sand it groveling lies.  
Even she herself, Sylvia, th' loved and fair,  
Whose one kind look could save me from despair;  
She, she whose Smiles I valued at that rate,  
To enjoy them I scorned the frowns of Fate;  
Even she herself, (but Ah! I'm loath to tell,  
Or blame the Crimes of one I loved so well;  
But it must out) even she, swift as the Wind,  
Swift as the airy motions of the Mind,  
At once proved false, and perjured, and unkind.  
Here they to day invoke the Powers above,  
As Witnesses to their Immortal Love;  
When (lo!) away the airy Fantom flies,  
And e'er it can be said to live, it dies:  
Thus all Religious Vows, and Oaths they break,  
With the same ease and freedom as they speak.  
Nor is that sacred Idol, Marriage, free,  
Marriage! which musty Drones affirm to be  
The tye of Souls, as well as Bodies! nay,  
The Spring that does through unseen Pipes convey  
Fresh sweets to Life, and drives the bitter dregs away!  
The Sacred Flame, the Guardian Pile of Fire,  
That guides our steps to peace! nor does expire,  
Till it has left us nothing to desire!  
Even thus adorned, the Idol is not free  
From the swift turns of their Inconstancy.  
Witness th' Ephesian Matron—  
Who to the Grave with her dead Husband went,  
And closed herself up in his Monument;  
Where on cold Marble she lamenting lay,  
In sighs, she spent the Night; in Tears, the Day,  
And seemed to have no use of Life, but mourn it all away.  
The wondering World extolled her faithful Mind,  
Extolled her as the best of Womankind:  
But see the World's mistake; and with it, see  
The strange effect of wild Inconstancy!  
For she herself, even in that sacred Room,  
With one brisk, vigorous Onset was o'ercome,  
And made a Brothel of her Husband's Tomb:  
Whose pale Ghost trembled in its Sacred ,  
Wondering that Heaven th' Impious Act allowed:  
Horror in Robes of Darkness stalked around;  
And through the frighted Tomb did Groans resound:  
The very Marbles wept, the Furies howled,  
And in hoarse Murmurs their amazement told.  
All this shook not the dictates of her Mind,  
But with a boldness, suited to her kind,  
She made her Husband's Ghost, (in Death, a Slave!)  
Her necessary Pimp even in his Grave!  
What need I fetch these Instances from old?  
There now live those that are as bad, and bold,  
Of Quality too, Young, vigorous, Lustful, Fair;  
But for their Husband's sakes their Names I spair.  
Are these (ye Gods) the Virtues of a Wife?  
The Peace that Crowns a Matrimonial Life?  
Is this the Sacred Prize for which we fight,  
And hazard Life and Honour with delight?  
Bliss of the Day? and Rapture of the Night?  
The Reins, that guide us in our wild Careers?  
And the Supporter of our feeble Years?  
No, no, 'tis Contradiction; rather far  
They are the cause of all our Bosom-war;  
The very Source, and Fountain of our Woe,  
From whence Despair, and Doubt for ever flow:  
The Gall, that mingles, with our best delight;  
Rank to the Taste, and nauseous to the Sight:  
A Days, the weight of Care that clogs the Breast,  
At Night the Hag that does disturb our rest,  
Our mortal Sickness in the midst of Health;  
Chains in our Freedom; Poverty in Wealth:  
Th' Eternal Pestilence, and Plague of Life;  
Th' Original, and Spring of all our Strife;  
These rather are the Virtues of a clamorous Wife!   

O why, ye awful Powers, why was't your Will  
To mix our solid Good with so much Ill?  
But you foresaw our Crimes would soar too high,  
And so made them your Vengeance to supply:  
For not the wild destructive waste of War,  
Nor all the endless labyrinths of the Bar,  
Famine, Revenge, perpetual loss of Health,  
No, nor that grinning Fiend, Despair itself,  
When it insults with most tyrannic sway,  
Can plague or torture man so much as they.  
But hold— don't let me blame the Powers Divine;  
Or at the wondrous Works they made, repine.  
All first was good, formed by th' unerring Will,  
Tho' much has since degenerated to ill:  
Even Woman was (say they) made chaste and good;  
But Ah! not long in that blessed State she stood:  
Swift as a Meteor glides through air she fell,  
And showed, to love that Sex too much, is one sure way to Hell.   

But stop my Pen; for who can comprehend,  
Or trace those Crimes which ne'er can have an end?  
The Sun, the Moon, the Stars that gilled the Sky,  
The World, and all its glories too must die,  
And in one universal Ruin lie:  
But they even Immortality will gain,  
And live— but must for ever live in pain;  
For ever live, damned to eternal Night,  
And never more review the Sacred Light.  
Beware then, dull deluded Man, beware;  
And let not vicious Women be the Snare,  
To make you the Companions with 'em there:  
Scorn their vain Smiles, their little Arts despise,  
And your Content at that just value prize,  
As not to let those ravenous Thiefs of Prey  
Rifle, and bear the sacred Guest away;  
'Tis they, 'tis they that rob us of that Gem;  
How could we lose it were it not for them?  
Avoid 'em then, with all the gaudy Arts,  
They daily practise to amuse our Hearts;  
Avoid 'em, as you would avoid their Crimes,  
Or the mad Follies that infest the Times.   

But now, should some (for doubtless we may find  
Many a stupid Ass among Mankind,)  
Should such contemn the wholesome Rules I give,  
And in contempt of what I've spoke, still live  
Like base soul'd Slaves, and Fetters choose to wear,  
When they may be as unconfined as Air,  
Or the winged Race that do inhabit there;  
May all the Plagues an ill Wife can invent,  
Pursue 'em with eternal Punishment:  
May they— but stay, my Curses I forestall;  
For in that Curse I've comprehended all—  
But say, Sir, if some Pilot on the Main  
Should be so mad, so resolutely vain,  
To steer his Bark upon that fatal Shore,  
Where he has seen ten thousand wracked before,  
Tho' he should perish there; say, would you not  
Bestow a Curse on the Notorious Sot?  
Trust me, the Man's as much to blame as he,  
Who ventures his frail Bark out wilfully,  
On the Wild, Rocky, Matrimonial Sea;  
When round about, and just before his Eyes,  
Such a destructive waste of fatal Ruin lies.   
FINIS.