THE Restored Maidenhead.  
A NEW satire AGAINST WOMAN: OCCASIONED By an INFANT, who was the Cause of the Death of my Friend.  
To spiteful Powers (if there can be,  
That boast a worse and keener spite than I)  
Assist with Malice, and your mighty Aid  
My sworn Revenge, and help me Rhyme her dead.  Oldham's satire. 
Mulieri ne credas, ne mortuae quidem.  Horat. 
DONDON, Printed for H. Smith. 1691.   

THE PREFACE.  
IT would be almost a ridiculous excuse for a satire, that it is rough and undressed, since in my Judgement that is one of the principal Characters of that way of writing. At least, what Spencer says of Love, is true of Grief, that 'tis nothing nice; and the more carelessly the Flowers are strowed on the Hearse of the deceased, the more natural and gracefully they'll appear. Were I in a humour to make Excuses, the next should be, for some strokes here, severe enough on the fair Sex; for which they may, if they please, be angry without weighing the high occasion: But those who are so just to do so, I shall be so civil to own I except them out of those General Rules hereafter delivered.  
As for those concerned; if they are angry, I'm glad on't; if they rave, 'tis what I desire; and if they hang themselves, 'twould be the best action they ever did in their Lives; and, I believe, the only good one. Friends or Enemies be they, I'll detain 'em no longer in the Preface, but finish that, and fall to work on the main business.   

A satire, etc.  

BRave Man! the Sacrifice of Female spite,  
In Tears or Blood thy Loud-tongued Wrongs we'll write.  
Whilst even thy Stepdame England pities thee,  
Whilst thy distracted Mother Albany  
Her dear-loved Son's untimely Fall laments  
His sudden Loss, and too-hard Fate resents.  
Her Groans are heard to both her distant Seas,  
From the Picts-wall to frozen Orcades;  
Nor shall she Mourn alone, nor shall he go  
All unrevenged to th' empty Shades below,  
To those vain Fields of Joy which Poets dream,  
Beyond black Styx and Lethe's lazy Stream:  
If Innocent Polixena must fall,  
O Thetis Son! to attend thy Funeral;  
To Free the Grecian Fleet with Storms distressed,  
And make thy mighty injured Manes rest:  
More justly we to Satyr's rage expose  
The cursed Helen, root of all our Woes:  
Her Fame, t'appease our murdered Hero, dies,  
We'll on his Hearse her Honour sacrifice;  
All her bewitching Charms just Victims made,  
Expiring round the Tomb t'atone his shade.  
Nay, her whole treacherous perjured Sex comes in,  
Those Serpents made to tempt the World to Sin;  
Then damn 'em, and despise 'em for't— O why,  
(Might we thus reason with the Deity?)  
Are the less harmless Fiends in Darkness chained,  
While Woman, subtler Woman, free remained  
To plague the World, yet still as fair, as bright  
As all their kindred Devils in Robes of Light?  
Their Sentence less, altho' their Crime was more;  
They fell, yet still as lovely as before.  
Through every Street, and Park, and Walk they glare,  
As proud and thick as Daemons in the Air,  
All shapes they take, but all, alike, to vent  
Their malice deep, and gloomy discontent;  
And whom they can't destroy, at least torment.  
How blessed were Man, how free from Pain and Vice  
And all the Earth even yet one Paradise,  
Had not hard Fate for the alloy of Life  
Doomed him to that Familiar Devil, a Wife;  
Condemned to th' Mines in that unhappy Ground,  
Where restless Spirits are ever hovering round  
'Tis true, when first the fatal Contract's made,  
The silly Wretch believes not he's betrayed:  
The Tail between the Legs is gently slid,  
Th' affrightful Cloven-Foot and Horns are hid:  
Enchanted heaps of Gold lie scattered round  
With flattering Music's more enchanting sound,  
With Eyes which more than Gold or Music wound.  
The miserable Captive hopes to find  
A long long happy Term of years behind:  
Happy as now his hasty Moment's move,  
Nor would he change his Bliss with those above.  
Persuade him not— 'tis Envy gives th' advice,  
Think not to cheat him of his Paradise;  
It mayn't, it can't, it shan't be otherwise.  
But when the Bond to make the Bargain good  
Is Signed with something more refined than Blood;  
O how th' enchanted heaps of Gold decay,  
The pleasure of the Music wears away,  
Or turns to rells; the Eyes uncharming grow,  
And fiery Red, like Cockatrice's glow.  
The Angel fades, the Hag and Wife appears  
All full of hateful Wrinkles, full of Years;  
Nothing of Woman left but Tongue and Tears.  
Too late the Wretch reputes, he grieves too late  
His desperate Fortunes, and his lost Estate,  
Deep swallowed in inevitable Fate.   

Yet happier He than him whose Plague's too come;  
For now the worst is o'er, he knows his doom.  
But what would t'other give his Pain were passed,  
Since 'tis what all must come to, first or last.  
Where e'er the Ludicrous She-Devil leads  
O'er craggy Mountains, through wide watery Meads.  
O'er Hedge and Ditch, a weary pathless way,  
Untaught unbridled Youth she leads astray;  
She leads, they follow, and willingly obey.  
One while the wild capricious Fiend delights  
To scare her trembling slaves with ghastly sights;  
Is all herself, blue Poison from her Breath;  
She scatters, from her Eyes, Despair and Death.  
Racks, Pistols, Gibbets, Daggers them presents;  
And worse, with Love and Jealousy torments;  
Yet the next moment on the Wretch's smiles,  
And with her well-known flattering Arts beguiles.  
Beauteous as were the Seraphs e'er they fell,  
And dressed in all the glaring Pomp of Hell  
Thus cheats 'em back to Life with Fits of ease;  
She, when she will, the crippled Mice can seize.  
Their dying Agonies thus, often, sees,  
And, lingering, makes 'em perish by degrees;  
Nay, taught by Italian Arts, more deep than Hell,  
(For Satan goes to School to Matchiavel,)  
Makes 'em secure Damnation e'er they go,  
Then Body and Soul dispatches at a Blow.  
For Mischief these about the World she'll send;  
Makes this betray his Country, that his Friend.  
To Newgate does whole shoals each Month prefer,  
And Bedlam would be empty but for Her.   

Woman, there's Ropes and Daggers in the Name;  
The Dregs of the Creation, Nature's Shame:  
Yet This is worse than all, if worse can be;  
They're the Epitome of Hell, and She  
Is all her Sex's cursed Epitome.  
Poor harmless Infant! I her Fate deplore!  
Fourteen Hands high the Beast, nor less, nor more;  
Scarce large enough, alas! to make a W—.  
Weak new-spawned Toad, Innocent pretty thing,  
Young Viper; who would think it yet should sting?  
Or Scorpion rather, for her Venom lies  
Not in her Mouth, (tho' wide,) nor in her Eyes:  
Tho', like a Basilisk's, they the Heart assail,  
The Scorpion bears its Poison in its Tail;  
Where e'er it falls, it blasts and burns the Ground,  
And spreads too sure Destruction all around.  
Had Cleopatra's Asps on her been tried,  
She had'scaped, and the more harmless Worms had died:  
Her Poison of the too had been the worst,  
And in a moment they'd have swelled and burst.  
Frail Nature's work, with much ado, contains  
The fatal Venom bubbling in her Veins:  
In her swollen Veins, Hells of hot Sulphur roll,  
Some lustful Devil supplies the place of Soul:  
Of nobler humane Offspring name her not,  
By salt Asmodeus on a She-goat got;  
Yet salter than the Lineage whence she came;  
See how she does even her black Parent's shame;  
She's ten-times hotter than her Sire or Dam.  
That fair, that false Egyptian Crocodile,  
Who fixed her Nets along the Banks of Nile;  
To fetter Princes in her servile Chain,  
And see proud Generals wait, and fill her Train;  
Who Fate, and Blood, and Murder round her hurled,  
That fatal Comet of the Roman World;  
By Caesar and lost Antony adored,  
That Queen of Whores herself scarce earlier Whored.  
Tho' in her Leading strings 'tis thought she strayed;  
And e'er she learned her own, forgot the name of Maid.  
Nor with the Brand of Common Fame content,  
She's a State-W— by Act of—.  
For tell me that wise Oedipus that can,  
What is she else, who having tasted Man;  
Tasted, and gorged herself, and pleased to th'Life,  
Is neither Widow, ravished Maid, nor Wife?  
This monstrous Sight exposed to public view,  
An odder, fruitful afric never knew,)  
Would raise her Fortune soon, and make it more  
Than those vast Sums which damned her deep before!  
August Assembly! might the Muse presume  
With rude unhallowed Feet your sacred Room  
T' approach and view, she'd search around and try  
Where the miraculous secret Power did lie;  
That Power by which you what you please effect,  
And like the Guardian Minds, above direct  
Our Under-World: But as my Reason may  
Th' Eternal Law givers just Dictates weigh,  
Before I this believe, or that obey.  
As by that Touchstone, which alone h'has given,  
T' examine the Credentials sent from Heaven.  
If I the Royal Signet find not there;  
If all's not stamped with true, and good, and fair;  
I must not say th' Almighty's Will's amiss;  
I may, I dare, I must— that ' 'tis not his.  
If this even Heaven permits, permit me too  
For once to hope my Senses are not true;  
To hope that only I mistake not you.  
Fate cannot what is lost, the same restore,  
Nor all the Wit and Power on Earth do more;  
What's past is passed— a W— is still a W—.  
The nimble God may argue while he will,  
Yet spite of's Wit, Sosia is Sosia still.  
How long so e'er he drub him, still's the same,  
And keeps the person, tho' he lose the name.   

Poor modest Creature! must thy wished Escape  
From jealous Guardian-Dam be called a Rape?  
How oft hast thou been ravished thus before?  
How oft the same sweet peal rung o'er and o'er?  
The first blessed Night, by the most blessed of Men,  
All Bridegrooms such be sure are reckoned then;  
How often didst thou wish the same again?  
What tickling Pleasure, mounted to the height,  
Swum in thy foolish Eyes that fatal Night,  
And did the eager Youth to thy hot Arms invite   

Thus Helen ravished was when Theseus bore  
The willing Plunder from the Grecian Shore:  
She cried, but softly 'twas— quite dumb with fear—  
Poor cautious Fool— lest any one should hear.  
And when the dreadful Warrior had conveyed  
To some convenient place the trembling Maid,  
She bore, or else the Poet says not true,  
His amorous Rage as peaceably as you.  
Not her fair Mother Leda stiller lay,  
When Masquerading Jove did her betray.  
She stroked the Swans soft plumes, of what came after  
Dreaming no more than did her unborn Daughter.  
She's ne'er the worse, fair Helen's Helen still,  
These Fortunes ever may do what they will,  
A Bride for Menelaus as complete  
As you for the next Plyer in the Street.   

But if no Rape's i'th' case, 'tis yet confessed  
By all, the Fact was Felony at least.  
O Crime, abhorred! no sign of discontent;  
No lest effort the Robbery to prevent;  
Surely he stole her with her own consent.  
But still the Sages of the Law do fear  
That more than Simple Felony was here:  
Some that 'twas Burglary will make't appear.  
Their Sophistry we know, and right we take 'em,  
Where Doors are always open none can break 'em.  
Others with higher Crimes Lysander load,  
'Twas as flat Robb'ry as any o'th' Road.  
But that he bid her stand, she dares not tell;  
For e'er he drew his Pistol, down she fell.  
Tho' down she fell she was not baffled quite,  
But on all four, like Venner's gang, did fight.  
Aloud the subtle Frigate quarter roared,  
Till with th' Assailant she was board and board:  
Broadside for Broadside then so briskly fired,  
That, Man of War sheered off and first was tired.  
So greedily the hungry Bride fell to,  
The Bridegroom's haste could hardly hers outdo:  
She almost cursed the Parson to his Face  
For bantring 'em with such a tedious Grace:  
Her Stomach's patience could no longer hold;  
Besides, she wisely feared the Meat would cold:  
Against his long good Prayers devoutly railed,  
As the worst Crimes for which he e'er was Jailed.  
But never did that Tail-less Fox accuse  
For knitting 'twixt 'em both the fatal Noose:  
That cursed enchanted Knot of Hand or Heart,  
Death and the P— alone could part.  
Had honest P—d's lost abortive Bill  
Both Houses passed, and had the Royal Seal,  
With but one short amendment added to't  
T' enforce it more, 't'had been without dispute  
(Tell me ye shackled Mortals! is't not true?)  
The happiest Law that ever England knew:  
That those who Natures Freeborn Subjects join  
In Matrimonial Twist—  
Lose all their Rights both Humane and Divine:  
(Invent a heavier Sentence he that can!)  
At once degraded both from Priest and Man.  
Could I believe there was no After-Doom,  
But all were endless sleep beyond the Tomb,  
As Malmsbury the ravished Sparks would tell,  
The rest o'th' Doctrine I could credit well,  
And think a Married Life the only Hell.  
Then say what punishment beyond despair  
Is for those tempting Fiends too much to bear  
Who push frail Mortals in and leave them there!  
Would the kind Man in black but go quite through,  
And those whom he has Married, Bury too;  
The Knot h'has tied would he but straight undo,  
'Twould be so very good, and very kind,  
We would forget he bound, would he unbind,  
And frankly cancel all the Scores behind:  
If not, the gentler Hangman should supply  
His vacant Cure, for easier 'tis to die  
In one half hour, than racked with Cares and Fears,  
For twenty, thirty, forty tedious years  
Hanged up in Marriage chains, and hour by hour  
Have some sharp ravenous Wife the mangled Corpse devour.  
Who in his Wits at least that would not choose  
Before he thrust his Head in that cursed Noose,  
That Matrimonial Brake, the Bridal Bed,  
Whence he ne'er draws his Horns without his Head:  
Who would not rather to the World commend,  
That brave, that generous, Godlike thing— a Friend?  
A Friend— there's every thing contained i'th' Name,  
A Second-self's too narrow— 'tis the same:  
Two Lutes in one Angelic Consort joined,  
Two Bodies moved by one harmonious Mind.  
Their tasteful Joys exchanged, but Joys alone,  
No proper Grief by Friends was ever known;  
Whilst they each others bear they lose their own.  
Pure all their Pleasure, noble and refined,  
It leaves no guilt, nor stain, nor sting behind:  
No dirty base alloy of shame or sin,  
Here no unlucky Sex comes stealing in.  
Flattery, the greatest plague by Hell designed  
To ruin Mortals, next to Womankind:  
That noble Link does neither twist nor break,  
In Friendships' Language things not words they speak.  
If one of these can an ill action do  
Or suffer ill, the other feels it too.  
Two Unisons, so even and so like,  
This gently trembles if on that you strike:  
Like Leda's I wins, they share the upper Skies;  
This Sets in vain while that as bright does Rise.  
Rude hands in vain to murder one pretend,  
A Friend is still immortal in his Friend.  
Kill all or none, stab home, or never touch,  
One either is too little, or too much.  
Tho' bleeding Life one tottering Fort forsakes,  
Yet to the next a fair retreat it makes.  
Can its untenantable Corpse survive,  
And still in the Friend's Breast is kept alive;  
Strengthens his Arm, how weak so ere it be  
For just revenge, and makes him act like thee;  
Like thee, thou brave lost Man, who too near hadst learned  
T' excuse or save thyself, thy Friend concerned.  
Teaches his Muse to stab at every word,  
And use his Pen as well as thou thy Sword.   

Thus, Ah! in vain we our wild Griefs express,  
But can't thy miserable Fate redress.  
In vain the World thy worth and thee commends,  
Styles thee the bravest and the best of Friends.  
What then remains, but with new rage to fall  
On that accursed Sex that caused it all.  
The Eternal Springs of Murder, Mischief, Strife,  
Th' Inquisitors, the Racks, the Plagues of Life.  
Lashed worse than Oats, tho' yet their backs are sore,  
We'll kindly try to cure old Wounds with more.  
If Vengeance can one smarter stroke inspire,  
And our too just Resentments spoken higher,  
The angry Muse have more of Gall or Fire.   

What Place, what Cavern subtle Nature knows,  
Does not hard Fate to the cursed Sex expose?  
Not only they, while here on Earth rebel,  
But make as bad disturbance even in Hell.  
Grim Pluto can't his Iron Sceptre sway,  
But Proserpina must strive to snatched away,  
And make the Ghosts their Sovereign disobey.  
The second place in Hell cannot suffice,  
By Styx, and all her Kindred in the Skies:  
Aloud she swears that he or her must down,  
And as he ravished her, she'll seize his Crown.  
Eurydice, unless the Poets feign,  
Called in at Hell, and soon returned again.  
Persuade us, while you will her Husband's Lyre,  
Did Pity in infernal Breasts inspire,  
Who let her fairly to the Skies retire;  
But Ah! the miracles, recorded wrong,  
She was redeemed, not Orpheus by thy Song,  
If truth were known, more thanks to her good tongue,  
'Twould Cerberus outbark, the damned outswear,  
The Snakes out-hiss, the Fiends no longer dare  
Discharge their duty while she loitered there;  
Their useless pitch-fork now no more avails,  
When them with longer Weapons she assails,  
And far more sharp, her tongue, her Teeth and Nails.  
At length they swore the peace at Pluto's Bench,  
On some Court-day against the strapping Wench.  
The Secretary did a Warrant draw,  
Completely signed by Pluto's Cloven Paw,  
To send her packing in their own defence,  
And for the ease of Hell expel her thence.  
With much ado, they won her to repair  
To the extremest bounds of lightsome Air,  
But when she found her Husband waiting there;  
ere with him she would in Obedience dwell,  
She slipped his hand, and back she funk to Hell.  
There swaggers as before, still breaks her Chain,  
The Furies fret, and Pluto raves in vain;  
But dares not send her packing for his Ears,  
O'er him and all his Realm she domineers,  
The same their danger, and the same their fears.  
Ah poor Belphegor— did the black Divan,  
Order thee to endue the Form of Man,  
To taste the sweets and bitterness of Life,  
And bless and double damn thee in a Wife:  
So long a Journey they'd done well to spare,  
They might have found thee an Imperia there.  
As fit and as complete for their design,  
As false as fickle, and as proud as thine.   

Nor have they pestered Earth and Hell alone,  
Since from the Sex Jove scarce secures his Throne,  
With fear and awe does his dread Sceptre hold,  
For reverence of his own Immortal Scold.  
Her Tongue outdoes his feebler Thunders found  
And shakes scared Natures universal Round.  
His dreadful twy-forckt Bolt not nimbler flies,  
Nor Sheets of Flame wide-wafting through the Skies,  
There is no Lightning like her Hands and Eyes.  
Juno does his Illustrious Tresses tear,  
Twists her long fingers in his Beard and Hair,  
And throws the precious Spoils around the Air.  
Hence Bearded Comets through the Clouds are hurled,  
And dreadful hairy Meteors fright the World.  
Portending Battle, Murder, every Woe,  
Poor Sympathetick Husbands feel below.  
No wonder Bacchus does for India scour,  
His Stepdames scolding all his drink would sower.  
The thirsty Gods their Nectar hide for fear  
Her Voice should strike it dead as our small Beer,  
And stop their Ears, as they did Treason hear.  
O Emblem of a Wife, as Cursed as Proud,  
As restless, fierce, unconscionable, loud.  
What Cyclops would within her hearing venture,  
She out-roars Mars as far as Mars did Stentor,  
And with her very whispers shakes the Centre.  
These and a thousand more which stories tell,  
The Plagues of groaning Earth, of Heaven and Hell,  
I'd honour, dote on, Idolise, commend,  
Before the Wretch who ruin'd such a Friend,  
Nor shall she, though so fain she would escape,  
And louder than before cries out a Rape!  
This cursed satire, this preposterous Noddy,  
Would worse than him that's gone trouble my Body?  
All will not do, he holds her tightly to't.  
Rail while she will, she cannot stir a Foot.  
Is this the Thing for which Lysander died?  
This Bubble of ill Nature, Lust and Pride?  
Since Fate foresaw she was for Mischief born,  
Why was she not exposed to Want and Scorn?  
Why did it not those Weapons from her take,  
Which her cursed Sex so formidable make?  
Well it begun the work, but did not hold:  
It gave not Beauty; Ah! why gave it Gold?  
Gold, which so high can raise the amorous Fire,  
And more than Wine itself inflame Desire.  
Gold, which like Thunder breaks, like Lightning flies,  
And pierces deeper far than Sylvia's Eyes.  
More fair than the fair Sex to give't its due,  
Far the more lasting Beauty of the two.  
Twenty or thirty Years make Women old,  
But who finds fault with bent Jacobus Gold?  
So sweet its Air, so charming is its Smile,  
It all the World can with one glance beguile.  
Soldiers and Saints, and Politicians spoil.  
A Trap by those beneath about i● hurled,  
First to ensnare, and then destroy the World.  
And with it go to further its Design,  
Those Fiends who watched it in its native Mine:  
And when they sally to the under-Skys,  
They Women leave behind their Deputies.  
With some they more with others less intrust,  
As they perceive they will to Hell be just,  
Or as their stock of Beauty, Wit or Lust.  
From two of these is scornful Sylvia free,  
As ere she was from Faith or Chastity;  
As overrun with Goatish Lechery.  
Ah! had she been but despicably poor,  
No Wealth nor Quality to lard the W—  
But for a Bottle and a Supper plied  
At Court or Playhouse, Fleetstreet or Cheapside;  
The worst she ere had done, or ere could do,  
Had been t'have Clapped, an eager Fool or two;  
Then sent 'em home, their Veins and Pockets drained,  
To boast of what they lost and what they gained.  
But when the dreadful Comet did aspire  
To distant Regions, more sublime and higher,  
Near the bright Seat of Elemental Fire;  
Her fatal Influences further run,  
And more by her betrayed, and more undone:  
The more does her Malignity prevail,  
The longer down she darts her glittering Golden Tail.  
Whole Nations with one sweep it bears away  
It's ghastly Light drives back the sickly Day,  
Bodeing Destruction, Mischief and Decay.   

But since, poor wretch, she has been wronged before,  
Let's use her tenderly, for yet she's sore,  
And wish she never may be ravished more.  
May that fair Reputation you possess,  
Ever remain:— Still may the People bless  
Your Memory, Madam, as they yet have done,  
Stark mad for Love and Admiration run,  
And wish, though they despair t' obtain the grace,  
To view a little nearer your fair Face,  
And get a Look, a Kiss, oran Embrace.  
Supply your Abdicated Drudges room,  
Ere some foul sin your nauseous Corpse consume.   
The End.