A LETTER From Artemiza in the Town, to Cholë in the Country.  By a Person of HONOUR. 
CHloë, in Verse, by your Command I write;  
Shortly you'll bid me ride astride, and fight.  
These Talents better with our Sex agree,  
Than lofty flights of dangerous Poetry,  
Amongst the men, I mean the men of Wit,  
At least that passed for such, before they writ.  
How many bold Adventures for the Bays,  
Proudly designing large return of praise?  
Who durst that stormy pathless World explore,  
Were soon dashed back, and wracked on the dull shore,  
Broke of that little stock they had before.  
How would a woman's tottering Bark be tossed,  
Where stoutest Ships (the men of Wit) are lost?  
When I reflect on this, I strait grow wise,  
And my own self thus gravely I advise:  
Dear Artemiza, Poetry is a Snare,  
Bedlam has many Mansions,— have a care.  
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad;  
You fancy y'are inspired, he thinks you mad.  
But like an Arrant woman, as I am  
No sooner well convinced, writings a shame,  
That Whore is scarce a more reproachful name  
Than Poetess,—  
Like Men that marry, or like Maids that woe,  
'Cause 'tis the very worst thing they can do.  
Pleased with the Contradiction and the Sin,  
Methinks I stand on Thorns till I begin:  
Y'expect to hear at lest what Loves have passed  
In this lewd Town, since you and I met last.  
But how, my dearest Chloë, shall I set  
My Pen to write what I would fain forget;  
Or name that lost thing Love, without a tear,  
Since so debauched by Illbred Customs here?  
" Love, the most generous Passion of the Mind,  
" The softest Refuge Innocence can find.  
" The safe Director of unguided Youth,  
" Fraught with kind Wishes, and secured by Truth.  
" That Cordial drop Heaven in our Cup hath thrown,  
" To make the nauseous Draught of Life go down.  
" In which one only Blessing God might raise,  
" In Lands of Atheists, subsidies of praise:  
" For none did e'er so dull and stupid prove,  
" But felt a God, and blest his power in Love.  
This only Joy for which poor We were made,  
Is grown, like Play, to be an errand Trade.  
The Rooks creep in, and it has got of late;  
As many little Cheats and Tricks as that.  
But what yet more a Woman's heart would vex,  
'Tis chiefly carried on by our own Sex.  
Our silly Sex, who born like Monarches free,  
Turn Captives for a meaner Liberty,  
And hate Restraint, though but from Infancy.  
They call whatever is not common, nice,  
And deaf to Nature's Rules and Loves Advice,  
Forsake the Pleasure, to pursue the Vice.  
To an exact perfection they have wrought  
The Action Love; the Passion is forgot.  
'Tis below Wit (they tell ye) to admire;  
And even without approving, they desire.  
Their private Wish obeys the public Voice;  
'Twixt good and bad, Whimsy decides, not Choice.  
Fashions grow up for taste; at Forms they strike;  
They know what they would have, not what they like.  
B— is a Beauty; if some few agree  
To call him so, the rest to that degree  
Affected are, that with their Ears they see.  
Where I was visiting the other night,  
Comes a fine Lady with her humble Knight,  
Who had prevailed on her, through her own skill,  
At his Request, though much against her will,  
To come to London.—  
As the Coach stopped, we heard her Voice more loud  
Than a great-bellied woman in a Crowd,  
Telling the Knight that her Affairs require  
He for some hours obsequiously retire.  
I think she was ashamed to have him seen;  
Hard fate of Husbands the Gallant had been,  
(Though a diseased ill-favoured fool) brought in.  
Dispatch (says she) that business you pretend,  
Your Beastly Visit to your drunken friend.  
A Bottle ever makes you look so fine,  
Methinks I long to smell you stink of Wine.  
Your Country-drinking breath's enough to kill  
Sour Ale, corrected with a Lemon-pill.  
Prithee farewel, we'll meet again anon;  
The necessary Thing bows and is gone.  
She flies up stairs, and all the haste does show,  
That fifty antic postures will allow.  
And thus bursts out, Dear Madam, am not I  
The alterd'st Creature breathing?— Let me die,  
I find myself ridiculously grown,  
Embarrassed with being out of Town.  
Rude and untaught, like any Indian Queen,  
My Country-nakedness is strangely seen.  
How is Love governed, Love that rules the State!  
And pray who are the men most worn of late?  
When I was married, Fools were A-la-mode;  
The men of Wit were then held incommode.  
Slow in Belief, and fickle in Desire  
Who, ere they'll be persuaded, must inquire,  
As if they came to spy, not to admire.  
With searching Wisdom, fatal to their ease,  
They still find out why, what, may, should not please.  
Nay, take themselves for injured, when we dare  
Make 'em think better of us than we are.  
And if we hide our frailties from their sights,  
Call us deceitful Guilts, and Hypocrites.  
They little guests who at our Arts are grieved,  
The perfect joy of being well deceived.  
Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds grow,  
Rather than not be knowing, they will know  
What, being known, creates their certain woe.  
Woman should these (of all mankind) avoid;  
For Wonder by clear Knowledge is destroyed.  
Woman, who is an Errand Bird of Night,  
(Bold in the Dusk before a Fools dull sight)  
Should fly when Reason brings the glaring Light.  
But the kind easy Fool, apt to admire  
Himself, trusts us; his follies all conspire  
To flatter his, and favour our desire.  
Vain of his proper merit, he with ease,  
Believes we love him best, who best can please.  
On him our gross dull common Flattries pass;  
Ever most joyful, when most made an Ass.  
Heavy to apprehend; though all mankind  
Perceives us false, the Fop concerned is blind;  
Who doting on himself—  
Thinks every one that sees him, of his mind.  
These are true women's men;— here forced to cease  
Through want of breath, nor will she hold her peace.  
She to the window runs, where she had spied  
Her most esteemed dear Friend the Monkey tied.  
With forty smiles, as many antic bows,  
As if't had been the Lady of the House,  
The dirty chattering Monster she embraced,  
And made it this fine tender Speech at last:  
" Kiss me, thou curious Minature of Man;  
" How odd thou art, how pretty, how Japan!  
" Oh, I could live and die with thee!— Then on,  
For half an hour in Compliment she run.  
I took this time to think what Nature meant,  
When this mixed thing into the world she sent;  
So very wise, yet so impertinent.  
One who knew every thing, whom God thought fit  
Should be an Ass through Choice, not want of Wit.  
Whose Foppery, without the help of Sense,  
Could ne'er have rose to such an Excellence.  
Nature's as lame in making a true Fop,  
As a Philosopher.— The very top  
And dignity of Folly we attain,  
By studious search, and labour of the Brain,  
By observation, counsel, and deep thought.  
God never made a Coxcomb worth a Groat;  
We owe that Name to Industry and Arts;  
An eminent Fool must be a Fool of Parts.  
And such a one was she, who had turned o'er  
As many Books as Men; loved much, read more:  
Had a discerning Wit; to her was known  
Every one's fault or merit, but her own.  
And the good Qualities that ever blessed  
A woman so distinguished from the rest,  
Except Discretion only, she possessed.  
But now, Mon-cher,— dear Pugg (she cries) adieu;  
And the Discourse broke off, does thus renew:  
You smile to see me (who the world, perchance,  
Mistakes to have some Wit) so far advance  
The Interest of Fools, that I appprove  
Their Merit more than means of Wit in Love.  
But in our Sex too many proofs there are  
Of such who Wits undo, and Fools repair.  
This in my time was so received a Rule,  
Hardly a Wench in Town but had her Fool.  
The meanest common Slut, who long was grown  
The jest and scorn of every Pit-Buffoon,  
Had yet left Charms enough to have subdued  
Some Fop or other, fond to be thought lewd.  
" A Woman's ne'er so wretched, but she can  
" Be still revenged on her undoer, Man.  
How lost soe'er, she'll find some Lover more,  
A lewd abandoned Fool, when she's a Whore.  
That wretched thing Corinna, who had run  
Through all the several ways of being undone;  
Cozened at first by Love, and living then,  
By turning the too dear-bought tricks on men.  
Gay were the hours, and winged with joy they flew,  
When first the Town her early Beauties knew.  
Courted, admired, and loved, with Presents fed;  
Youth in her looks, and Pleasure in her Bed:  
Till Fate, or her ill Angel, thought it fit  
To make her dote upon a man of Wit.  
Who sound 'twas dull to love above a day,  
Made his ill-natured Jest, and went away.  
Now scorned by all, forsaken, and oppressed,  
She's a Memento mori to the rest.  
Poor Creature, who unheard-of, as a Fly,  
In some dark hole must all the Winter lie.  
Both want and dirt endure a whole half year,  
That for one month she— tawdry may appear.  
In Easter-term she gets her a new Gown,  
When my young Master's Worship comes to Town,  
From Pedagogue and Mother just set free,  
The Heir and hopes of a great Family,  
Which with strong Ale and Beef the Country rules,  
And ever since the Conquest have been fools.  
And now with careful prospect to maintain  
This Character, lest crossing of the strain  
Should men the Booby-breed, his Friends provide  
A Cous●n of his own for his fair Bride.  
And thus set out,—  
With an Estate, no Wit, and a new Wife,  
(The solid Comfort of a Coxcomb's life)  
Dunghill and pease forsook, he comes to Town,  
Turns Spark, learns to be lewd, and is undone.  
Nothing suits more with Vice than want of Sense;  
Fools are still wicked at their own Expense.  
This overgrown Schoolboy, lost Corinna wins,  
And at first dash to make an Ass begins;  
Pretends to, like a man that has not known  
The Vanities nor Vices of the Town.  
Fresh in his Youth, and faithful in his Love,  
Eager of Joys which he doth seldom prove.  
Healthful and strong, he doth no pains endure,  
But which the fair one he adores, can cure.  
Grateful for Favours does the Sex esteem,  
And Libels none for being kind to him.  
Then of the Lewdness of the times complains;  
Rails at the Wits, and Atheists: and maintains  
'Tis better than good Sense, than Power and Wealth,  
To have a long untainted Youth and Health.  
The unbred Puppy, that had never seen  
A Creature look so gay, or talk so fine,  
Believes, then falls in Love, and then in Debt,  
Mortgages all, even to the ancient Seat,  
To buy his Mistress a new house for life,  
To give her Plate and Jewels, robs his Wife.  
And when to height of Fondness he is grown,  
'Tis time to poison him, then all's her own.  
Thus meeting in her common arms his Fate,  
He leaves her Bastard Heir to his Estate.  
And as the Race of such an Owl deserves,  
His own dull lawful Progeny he starves.  
Nature (who never made a thing in vain,  
But does each interest to some end ordain)  
" Wisely contrived kinde-keeping Fools (no doubt)  
" To patch up Vices men of Wit wear out.  
Thus she run on two hours, some grains of Sense,  
Still mixed with follies of Impertinence.  
But now 'tis time I should some pity show  
To Chloë, since I cannot choose but know  
Readers must reap the dulness Writers sow.  
By the next Post such Stories I shall tell,  
As joined to these, shall to a Volume swell,  
(As true as Heaven) more infamous than Hell;  
But you are tired, and so am I.— Farewell.