A SCOURGE FOR Poor Robin; OR, The Exact PICTURE OF A Bad Husband. Drawn to the Life, by an experienced Female-Hand, to Revenge her Injured Sex, for the Abusive Truths Of the late CHARACTER OF A SCOLD.  
With Allowance.  
LONDON: Printed for L. C. 1678.   

A SCOURGE FOR Poor Robin.  
ON my Conscience, this Poor Robin is more troublesome, than a silenced Presbyter; the Town can never be at Quiet for him, but he will still be Holding-forth his Pamphlets, and like a Man of Reformation, Hinting his Uses of Reproof; sure he has got as many Lives as a Cat, and like her too, is perpetually Mewing and Scratching. But could the bold Fool think to stir a Wasps-nest, and not sting his Fingers? or meddle with so terrible a Creature, as he has represented a Scold, without expecting some Billingsgate Repartees? How readily now could I call the Pragmatical Villain, more Ill-names than ever Puritan bestowed on the Pope, or one Waterman upon another? deafen his Ears with a Henbane Lurry, scratch out his Eyes, and bequeath his Guts to the use of a Country-Fidler. But our Revenge shall be more Noble; and like prudent States, we'll carry the War into the Enemy's Country. We have observed how pleased the Sots our Husbands were, with his late Raillery, how it tickled their spleens at every period! That's right my Joan! quoth one, Exactly the Tricks of my Old Woman! says another. Well, good Gentlemen! and what are your Tricks, I pray, that occasion such our Resentments. That the World may henceforth take notice of them, and in justice allow Loser's leave to speak, we'll present it with your True Pictures, all but your Horns; and they too, if you continue to use us thus, shall not be long Invisible.   

The Character of a Bad Husband.  
A Bad Husband, is an inconsiderate piece of Sottish Extravagance; for though he consists of several Ill-Ingredients, yet still Good-fellowship, is the Causa sine quâ non, and gives him the Ho-go: he is the Wise Man's scorn, the Shirks Exchequer, and the Wheadling Hostesses Honest Man; the Moth of an Estate, the Shipwreck of a Family, or a Mischief Three-story high; for he scandalises his Ancestors, ruins himself, and strangles the hopes of all his Posterity. He throws away his Wealth as heartily as young Heirs, or old Philosophers, and is so eager of a Jail, or a Mumpers Wallet, that he will not wait Fortune's leisure to undo him, but rides Post to Beggars-Bush, and takes more pains to spend Money, than Day-labourers to get it; whilst still his word is, Let's not pinch whilst we have it, since 'tis time enough to want when we have it not.  
He knows no difference between Prodigality and Liberality, but is so foolishly free, that he dries up the Springs of Bounty, by cutting down the Banks, and letting the Streams run waste; if he pretend to Gentility, he thinks he can no way make good that Ttile, but by paying (wherever he comes) the whole Reckoning; and every Rascal that can but cry, My Noble Master, is Master of his Purse; which Sucking Vermin continually flutter about him as thick as Flies in a Confectioners-shop. If he go to Market, 'tis but to purchase a Fox, and two days after returns, having only trucked away his Corn for Drink, and put off his cattle to make himself a greater Beast.  
His first business after Marriage, is to pay Alehouse- scores with his wife's Portion; and his next, to pawn her Clothes for supplies of fresh Debauchery. If he be a Citizen, he counts his Shop a Prison, till at last he is shopped in a Prison indeed. He pretends always extraordinary business abroad, and must needs go to the Exchange, when he has nothing to do there but change Shillings into Sixpences, and reduce Guineas into Farthings. He still cries, 'tis too soon to go home yet, and will trudge a mile about rather than come near his own door, for fear he should be obliged to come in before his hour, which is Midnight or past; for if he go home before, he says he can never sleep well. He is an Hogshead set on two stumps, fit for no use but to hold strong Drink; and if he be not at the Pot, is like a Fish out of water, that does nothing but gape: He thinks Nature gave him a Mouth not so much to speak, as to take off his Liquor; and his only enquiry is, Where dwells the best Sack and Claret? He is a passionate lover of Mornings-draughts, which he generally continues till Dinnertime; a rigid exacter of Num-Groats, and Collector-general for Foys and Beverage: He admires the prudence of that Apothegm, Let's drink first, and would rather sell 20 per Cent. to loss, than make a dry Bargain. You shall infallibly find him and his Tribe about the Fag-end of the day at Rendezvous, like a Constellation fixed in the lower Region of a known Tavern, where their Noses appear like Comets that evermore portend excessive drought: They go in upon Parole not to exceed Threepences; but seldom come out under an Half-Crown- Club; and their Noise (for Discourse you cannot call it) is more nonsensical and impertinent than a She-Quakers Sermon, or the tattles of an Upsitting. Assoon as they are accommodated with a private Room, an half Pint, (for so they modestly begin) some clean Pipes, and a Jordan, their first Argument is, the goodness of the Wine, which being voted a Flower, produces next a Bottle; and then News is the subject of debate; or for want of that, who was most drunk the night before, or reeled home with the greatest gravity and decorum. Though they live like Publicans, yet they imitate Pharisees in their exactness of making clean the inside of the Glass; and their strictest Criticisms are, See it go round, and Take it off, Sir.  
In this sweet Society our trusty Trojan bears his part till he has not discretion enough left to know at which end to light his Pipe; then staggering away, (if he scape the Compter) 'tis forty to one but he meets with some little Town-baggage, who picks his Pocket, and in requital bestows upon him a swinging Clap. In the mean time the good Woman at home sits lamenting till twelve at night over a piece of mouldy Bread, and a draught of Rotgut; and the Children are fain to go to bed without a Supper, because the vile Milkwoman is grown faithless: At last, when her precious Husband comes with a breath that stinks with Canary and Tobacco, worse than Hell of Brimstone; he perhaps picks a causeless quarrel, gives her a Remembrance with a Bedstaff, that she is forced to wear the Northumberland Arms a week after; which the good-natured Soul must excuse, by pretending an unlucky fall, or blaming an innocent Door-latch for the injury▪ But put case he go peaceably to Bed, what comfort is to be expected from such a Swine? Were not a Woman better be Married to a Mandrake, or take a Broom-staff for a Bed-fellow? yet this, forsooth, is our witless Head, this the Tool we must Worship and Obey, this the sage and mighty Animal that Triumphs over us, as the weaker Vessels; that notwithstanding all these Extravagancies of his own, reads Lectures to us of Good-houswifry, and after he has fooled away several Guineas abroad, worse than if he had made Ducks and Drakes with them, comes home, and complains of the destruction of a Candle's end, for want of a Save-all, and rails at his Wife's Improvidence, for not managing more thriftily the Income of the Kitching-stuffpot.  
Since this is our Condition, Gentlemen, and that the best Arms Nature affords us are our Tongues, I see no reason, why in so just a cause, we should not make use of them. This only we beg, restrain these Extravagants, or infringe not our Ancient Liberties; either enlarge your Bedlams, or pull down your Cucking-stools.  
FINIS.