Sylvia's Complaint, OF HER Sex's Unhappiness. A POEM. Being the Second Part of Sylvia's Revenge, OR, A satire AGAINST Man.  
LONDON, Printed, and are to be sold by Richard Baldwin near Oxford-Arms in Warwick Lane. 1692.   

THE PREFACE.  
THe General acceptance which Sylvia's Revenge found amongst all sorts of Readers, encouraged the Author to think of a Second Part, which though wrote after another manner, has equally as much of satire in it as the first.  
Sylvia is for continuing the Old Quarrel between the Houses of York and Lancaster; the Cannons are mounted, and the Portcullis' drawn down, and she seems to be Deaf to any terms of Capitulation; but 'tis hoped Matters may come to some Accommodations in time, and the White Flagg be hung out, and such Articles agreed upon as it shall be hard to determine which Party is the Victorious.  
If there be any soft and tender Lines in the following Essay, they must be asribed to the warmth of Sylvia's Passion; but if there are others which carry Thunder and Lightning along with them, they must be owned to proceed from that Concern, the poor Creature has for her Injured Sex; for we all know that in the matter of Love and Revenge, Women are Inimitable.  
But why Sylvias' Complaint? and why not Sylvia's Complaint? Is the Feminine Government so fixed that it fears neither open Assaults nor secret Undermine? Are there no grievances to be redressed, no encroachments upon their Liberties? no Violation of their Privileges? If such things are, who more fit to represent 'em than a Woman? especially one who can speak feelingly of 'em; for when a Woman finds the glittering Title of a Mistress is only made use of to Decoy her to another's Will, her Blood must creep very slowly in her Veins, who has not some resentments of the Matter; and it has ever been the Civility of all Nations to give Lovers leave to speak.  
If Sylvia has the Approbation of the Ladies, she Values not the Censures of the Men, she being her Sex's Champion, and will Defend their Cause against the Pen of any Daring He whatsoever.  

It is resolved, she will write on and try,  
The Wit and Courage of the Enemy;  
Her Sex's Cause she'll Nobly carry on,  
Against the bold satire, and the sly Lampoon,  
Until there shall not be a Scribbling Fop,  
That Dares pretend to take the Cudgels up.    

Silvia's Complaint OF HER Sex's Unhappiness. A POEM. Being the Second Part of Silvia's Revenge, or a satire against Man.  

'TWas in JULY, one glorious Afternoon,  
When to avoid the scorching Heat o'th' Sun,  
To a thick Grove, composed of Beech and Oak,  
(A place where Poets oft their Muse invoke.)  
I went alone, but fearing lest I should  
Be thoughtful in so dark a Solitude,  
To Charm the seeming horror of the place,  
I brought with me the Works of Hudibrass,  
— (Diverting Author, in whose every line  
Exalted Wit, and weighty Judgement shine.)  
Each Page with mighty pleasure I perused,  
But as I o'er his Charming Numbers mused,  
Methought I heard a strange Confused Noise,  
Of Sighs and Groans, which seemed of Female Voice;  
Amazed I listened, and without a pause  
Resolved by curious search to find the Cause;  
The Echo was my Guide, which quickly brought  
Me to the place to find out what I sought;  
In the most private part of all the Grove,  
By Nature framed for Solitude and Love;  
To my Amazement and Surprise I found,  
In Melancholy posture on the Ground,  
A Fair and Young, but pensive Virgin laid,  
She was (or at the least she seemed) a Maid▪  
Her Habit Rich, but Careless in her Dress,  
Which best the Sorrow of the Thoughts express;  
Tears from her Eyes like liquid Pearls distil,  
A sight would Savages with pity fill;  
Thrice gently on her Breast, her hand she struck,  
And mixed with Sighs, these following words she spoke:   

Ah me! to what Misfortunes am I born?  
With Grief oppressed, disconsolate forlorn;  
Fate of our Sex has sure no proper care,  
But Heaven and Earth against us proclaim a War;  
We have no Weapons for our own Defence,  
But that slight Armour called our Innocence,  
Weak in itself altho' it seem so strong,  
For 'tis not proof against a slanderous Tongue.  
Envy can blast it with its poisonous Breath,  
And Malice torture it almost to Death:  
Should I within my thoughts but take a view  
Of all those Ills our wretched Sex pursue,  
From Infancy till Aged we become,  
The Number would amount to such a Sum;  
My Thoughts would sink beneath the ponderous weight,  
Those Ills I do not mean which angry Fate  
In measure from its Wrathful Vials pours,  
Upon the other Sex as well as Ours;  
But those peculiar Mischiefs which perplex,  
Torment and Torture our Unhappy Sex.   

But since I dare not the full Prospect view,  
At least I'll take some notice of a few;  
As Wounds unsearched may fester, so my Grief,  
Unless related, cannot find relief.  
I'll tell my Sorrows to the Woods and Trees,  
While— Echo with my Sighs shall Sympathise,   

Of all the Engines which the Fiends of Hell  
Did unto Men our Deadly Foes reveal.  
To ruin and undo us, none there are  
That may i'th' least with Flattery compare;  
No sort of Speech requires so nice a touch,  
And nothing else can ruin half so much:  
For one who has by other Arts been won,  
Ten thousand have by flat'ry been undone;  
For like White Gunpowder it makes no noise,  
Yet sure as Death, it certainly Destroys;  
This Poison they into our Ears Distil,  
ere we the Difference know 'twixt Good and Ill  
And we some kind of Tenderness must owe  
To one who praises and commends us so:  
When grown to Riper Years, that Woman's Breast  
Must be with more than Common Virtue blest.  
Who can secure the outworks of her Heart,  
Against Flat'ries secret undermining Art.  
Like pleasant Music it invades our Ears,  
Our Reason blinds, and charms our greatest Fears,  
Disarms our Courage and we tamely yield,  
To Men in Arts of fine Dissembling skilled,  
Who all their Study and their Pains Employ,  
To Bring Unthinking Us to Guilty Joy.   

So I have seen a Maid, Young, Fair, and chaste,  
By chance, or else by kind Appointment placed,  
Close by the side of a Dissembling Youth,  
(Sworn Enemy to Constancy and Truth.)  
With awful Distance is his first Address,  
Fearing least rudely on her Charms he press;  
Till more familiar grown the Spark at last,  
Encircles with one Arm her slender Waste,  
While t'other hand is honoured with the Bliss,  
To grasp her soft Hand, or her softer Knees.  
His Eyes, which are the windows of his Soul,  
With soft and languishing Desires are full;  
Each glance of them Speaks more a Lover's sense,  
Than all the Raptures of Lip-Eloquence;  
Some little time by these Dumb Signs he speaks,  
Till with feigned Sighs he thus his Silence Breaks.   

Ah Madam! 'tis impossible to tell,  
The Racks and Tortures which I hourly feel;  
Almighty Love— Whom long I did, 〈◊〉- outbrave,  
Has to his Chariot chained me as a Slave:  
Ten thousand Beauties with their Charming Powers,  
ne'er moved my Heart, until surprised by Yours;  
Yours with one Glance did stubborn me subdue,  
The Chains I wear are all put on by You.  
Ah Charming fair! hSall I not entertain  
Some glimmering Hopes, I shall not sigh in Vain?  
Must I for ever these sharp Pains endure?  
The Eyes that caused the Wound can give the Cure;  
Bid me but hope, that Dawning of Success,  
And I shall have foretastes of Happiness:  
For Heaven's sake, Madam, lay a side that Frown,  
Your Beauty has unhappy me undone;  
Let not your anger still more wretched make  
The Man who dies a Martyr for your Sake.  
Will you?— Then Leans his head upon her Breast,  
While frequent Sighs and Kisses speak the rest.   

Who'd think such fulsome Stuff as this could kill,  
But every Days Experience says it will;  
Witness the truth of this each silly Maid,  
Who is by such like Practices betrayed,  
Like our great Grandam Eve, we all suppose,  
No treachry under fair Pretences grows,  
Her Longing too in us has taken root,  
We ne'er should else Disire forbidden Fruit;  
No Force need doubt, that stubborn Town to win,  
While Cannons play without, has Friends within;  
One Pitying Thought in Virgin's Bosom may  
Sooner her Honour and her Fame betray,  
Then Thousand Empty complimental strains,  
Mere Words of course, and froth of Empty Brains.  
Farewell her Virtue when Compassions move,  
For she that pitties, quickly learns to Love.   

Could we see Lust through all it's strange disguise,  
And view not what it seems, but what it is;  
With greater Horror we the Fiend should shun  
Then Devils, when they from Holy Water Run.  
Let Love or Passion be the fond pretence,  
'Tis Lust is still the Mythologick Sense;  
But Men so Artfully disguise their Passion,  
And call their vilest Lewdness Inclination,  
Like Fishes greedily the Bait we swallow,  
Not dreaming of the Ills will after follow.   

The three Conditions of the Female Life,  
Are Virgin, Widow, or 'fore that, a Wife;  
To each of which Inexorable Stars,  
Have ordered such a weighty Load of Cares:  
So far out-ballancing our short lived Joys,  
The pleasure even of Living it destroys.   

When we are Maids, and in our Virgin bloom,  
Whole Troops of fond expecting Rivals come;  
And each by Flattery, which they call Praise,  
In our Opinions strives himself to raise.  
Nay, they who languish with a modest Fire,  
Although they dare not speak, yet will admire;  
This, but too oft our Vanity does Swell,  
To see Men Languish, Sigh, Adore and Kneel:  
When all this Mighty Compliment is done,  
Not for our Sakes, but chiefly for their own;  
By thousand various Arts they strive to please,  
And we are called their Charming Mistresses,  
Treatment and Balls for us are Daily made,  
Nor must we want the Nightly Serenade:  
Where under Sylvia's or Corrina's Name,  
In Song and Music they record our Fame:  
Nay, our Devotions cannot be Defence  
Against a Lovers vain Impertinence;  
For even at Church the Spark which comes to Prayer,  
Knows 'tis the smallest business he has there;  
His Eyes, tho' lifted up to Heaven for show,  
Yet through kind Glances to the women's Pew,  
To Ogle there he cannot think a Sin,  
Since Holiness and Love are near of Kin;  
For being inflamed by Loose and Wanton Fires,  
He makes Devotion Pimp to his Desires;  
No opportunity is lost to try,  
Where we unwary and defenceless lie:  
For when he finds our sleeping Virtue Nods,  
Then is the time, the fatal time ye Gods.  
He rushes on us with a storm of Love,  
While we the grateful Violence approve;  
Our Pleasure 'fore our Honour we prefer,  
And with our Arms embrace the Ravisher.  
Think Heaven is round us, when we try the Bliss,  
But while with waking Dreams ourselves we please,  
And think each Rapture greater than the first,  
The wretch by Heaven, and Earth, and us accursed,  
Leaves us to chew the Cudd with sad regret,  
That we like Phrygians were but wise too Late.   

In Vain, in vain, ye men of mighty sense,  
Ye make to Love and Constancy Pretence,  
Early or late you also plainly show,  
'Tis Monstrous for to Love and yet be true;  
Alike ye all with flattery begin,  
To tempt and draw us to the Pleasing Sin;  
Alike ye all forsake us when ye find  
We Love you, and without Reserve, are kind.   

If this were all, we might with patience bear,  
And sometimes for our Virtue drop a Tear,  
When we believed what foolish we had done,  
Only to us, and perjured—; you was known;  
— But oh! what Plagues does he desire to feel,  
Who Does the Favours of the Fair reveal,  
And what in private done, in public tell;  
Although perhaps some little time before,  
To gain his Ends, with horrid Oaths he Swore,  
That open force nor Undermining Art,  
Should never get the secret from his Heart:  
But that more safe he'd keep it in his Breast,  
Then State Intrigues, or Juggling Arts of Priest,  
When at next Tavern or some Joval bout,  
A Glass of Wine brings all the Secret out.  
Methinks I view him in a Rapture sit,  
And thus Express himself— Last Night, last Night,  
That happy Night when in the tender Arms,  
Of a Kind She I lay Dissolved in Charms;  
Fill me a Bumper, here's her Health, Dear Will,  
Methinks I feel the Killing Transports still:  
What Prince would not his Dignity lay by,  
To be one Night but half so blest as I?  
All Young and Charming may she ever be,  
But ne'er be kind to any Man but me.  
He takes great care to see her Health go round,  
With repetitions of the pleasing Sound;  
To the obliging Fair One, tho' unknown,  
Each takes his overflowing Brimmer down.  
At last one subtle Youth by sly Disguise,  
Desires to know who this kind Goddess is;  
The Spark no● wary of the sly Trapan,  
(For Wine no Secret kept, nor ever can;)  
Softly in his Ear relates, without Disguise or Art,  
The whole Intrigue in every part;  
Describes her Person, and what clothes she wears,  
What Pew she sits in when she goes to Prayers:  
Perhaps reveals her Quality and Name,  
And when he next must quench his amorous Flame.  
Thus is a Lady's Reputation spoiled,  
And her good Name is with her Virtue soiled.   

But Men in Wickedness still further go,  
And to their prating Tongues no bounds allow;  
Those Women whom with all their Art and Skill,  
They cannot Flatter to their loser Will:  
Finding their Virtue (which they call their Pride,)  
Strongly resist the importuning Tide:  
They will at least in Glory have their share,  
And tell the World they have enjoyed the Fair:  
And tho' they ne'er could lure 'em to their Crimes,  
Yet swear they've lain with 'em a hundred times.  
Witness the truth of this each Sparkish Beau,  
Who boasts of Blessings he did never know▪  
Who from our Sex no Favours ever had,  
But those of Vizor Mask, or Chambermaid:  
Yet he of Mistresses has such a store,  
(That the Grand Sultan scarcely e'er had more.)  
At Court a few, and they be sure must be,  
Pretended, if not real Quality:  
But in the City scarce a Street or Lane,  
Which does not some obliging She contain;  
Whose tender Heart was caught, we must confess,  
By's charming Language, but more charming Dress:  
Incorrigible Fop, whose Impudence  
Alone supplies his mighty want of Sense,  
And doubly wretched She whose Heart is slain,  
By such an Ape, or Echo of a Man.   

More miseries still our wretched Sex endure,  
And miseries which can ne'er admit of cure;  
Nature when first she formed our Minds took care,  
To place the softest, tenderest Passions there.  
Hence 'tis, our Thoughts like Tinder, apt to fire,  
Are often caught with loving kind Desire;  
But Custom does such rigid Laws impose,  
We must not for our Lives the thing disclose.  
If one of us a lovely Youth has seen,  
And straight some tender Thoughts to feel begin;  
Which liking does insensibly improve  
Itself to longing fond impatient Love.  
The Damsel in distress must still remain,  
Tortured and wracked with the tormenting Pain  
Custom and Modesty, much more severe,  
Strictly forbid our Passion to declare.  
If we reveal, than Decency's provoked,  
If kept, than we are with the Secret choked;  
Besides, to Baseness Men are so allied,  
So lifted up with Vanity and Pride,  
That should a Maid with Sighs and Blushes tell,  
The restless Love she does for Strephon feel;  
Her sad Distress he would regard no more,  
Than Rich Men do Petitions from the Poor:  
Whilst wretched She in vain for Pity sues,  
He leaves her to frequent the Public Stews;  
So slights the Virtue which he should adore,  
To kneel at Feet of Mercenary Whore.   

The Charms of Wit and Beauty seldom fail,  
O'er the most stubborn Temper to prevail;  
To which if Youth and Virtue are allied  
Youth without Art, and Virtue without Pride.  
What store of Captives to her Conquering Eyes,  
May she expect, who has these Qualities?  
But if she wants what Charms above them all,  
The mighty Blessings which we Money call;  
In dull obscurity she long may live,  
And Visits rarely as the Dead receive;  
Till Reverend Age her Beauty has decayed,  
And she becomes an Old despised Maid:  
Unless seduced, and past all sense of shame,  
She prostitutes her Virtue and her Fame,  
And yields herself to every loser Flame.  
I pity from my Soul th' unhappy Maid,  
By Arts of Men, and her own Wants betrayed,  
To act a Crime she never knew before,  
And has the choice to Starve or be a Whore:  
Oh Poverty! thou undermining Ill,  
Whose fatal Damp too oft does Virtue kill.  
How many thousands of our Sex there are,  
Whose Minds were Virtuous, as their Faces Fair;  
Devoted now to shameless Infamy,  
Occasioned only by their Poverty:  
But leaving them as Blotts upon our Race,  
To reap the Fruits of Lewdness and Disgrace;  
Let us observe another Scene of Life,  
And view the Blessings which attend a Wife.   

If Custom we Accuse as too severe,  
In Impositions when we Virgins are;  
What Yokes and Fetters does the Female choose,  
Who enters in the Matrimonial Noose?  
To be the Partner of another's Flame,  
Gives up herself, her Fortune, and her Name,  
Her Hours of soft Repose and Liberty,  
Nay, her own will then cease to be free;  
For what Commands may not a Husband lay,  
When the Wife's part, is only to Obey?  
And we the blessed Effects may see each hour,  
Of such unbounded Arbitrary Power.   

If Young, and by her Inclinations led  
To taste the Pleasures of the Marriage Bed,  
And has as Partner in the Nuptial Joys,  
The Youth above all Mankind her Choice;  
Pleasures about her in such Numbers throng,  
Pleasures which cannot be expressed by Tongue:  
Her Spouse and She, each Minute's time improve,  
And Day and Night is but one Scene of Love;  
They kiss in Public, fond without measure,  
And think they ne'er can have enough of Pleasure.  
With scorn they look on unprovided Pairs,  
And think no Happiness so great as theirs:  
But ah! the young and lovely Bride too soon  
Perceives the waning of the Hony-Moon:  
Her Passion by Endearments still improves,  
And till the more enjoyed, the more she loves;  
While the ingrateful Wretch she Husband calls,  
By little slights shows how his Fancy palls,  
By frequent use grown weary of her Charms,  
He comes with dull Indifference to her Arms.  
If here the Humour stops, some hopes are left,  
(Provided he's not of all sense bereft;)  
By Arts of kind Endearments to recover,  
Th' expiring Passion of the Husband Lover.  
Wild Beasts by roughness may endure the Chain,  
But milder means are used to soften Man:  
Kind melting Kisses, modest, yet desiring,  
May raise to Life a Passion Just expiring;  
And he's a Monster Africa ne'er saw,  
Whose frozen Mind such kind Heats cannot thaw.   

But if by strange insensible Degrees,  
(The Bride in vain striving by Arts to please;)  
The Husband should (by his own baseness led)  
From slight Dislikes, at last forsake her Bed:  
In solitary Sheets she pines and grieves,  
While like a Rakehell Libertine he lives,  
Leaving his Spouse in solitude to mourn,  
Whilst he does for some stubborn Strumpet burn;  
With whom his vacant Hours are all employed,  
And dear-bought Pleasures by the Brute enjoyed:  
But his wild Rambles did I Pleasures call?  
Pleasures which with them bear the Scorpion's Tail;  
By such Delights they very often gain  
A moment's Pleasure, but an Age of Pain;  
To ' th' Marriage Bed th' Infection goes sometimes,  
And the Wife suffers for the Husband's Crimes.   

But if one constant to the Nuptial Vow,  
Does not himself such Liberties allow;  
A far much greater Evil oft ensues,  
For there's no Woman if she were to Choose,  
But likes a Rambling, 'fore a Jealous Spouse.  
The ones wild Frolicks may in time be cured,  
But Jealousy can never be endured.  
Let Priests the People's Ears amuse with Story,  
But sure on Earth there is no Purgatory;  
Like living with a Man, whose jealous Eyes  
Must watch a Wife in all her Privacies:  
Better ’t’adad been on her Wedding Day,  
She had descended to Sepulchral Clay,  
Than with a Jealous Coxcomb all her life,  
Have worn that slavish Epithet, a Wife.   

If she does Pains of Purgatory feel,  
Who's Husbands Jealous— She has sure a Hell;  
Who must surrender all her Youth and Charms  
For sake of Gold, up to an Old Man's Arms,  
With Tales of Death none need affright her mind,  
Since Day and Night she does its Image find.   

For Husband's Faults poor Wives still bear the blame,  
Does he Debauch in Punk, or Wine, or Game?  
And so is brought to Want and Poverty,  
The base censorious World does quickly Cry:  
We thought indeed this Match would ne'er prove good,  
Since his proud Wife wore such a High Commode,  
Forgetting his Night-rambles up and down,  
To all the Topping Taverns of the Town,  
Wherein one Week he spends more Money Clear,  
Then would provide Head-dresses all the Year.  
But I as well may indiscreetly try,  
To count the Stars which twinkle in the Sky,  
As go about with leisure to relate,  
The Mischiefs which attend the Female Married State.   

How oft have Widows, who have broke the Chain,  
Been tempted to the Fatal Noose again?  
By ugly Tongues of false Dissembling Men,  
And tho' once cheated, venture once again:  
Widows are Baits for Younger Brothers laid,  
To patch a Ruined Fortune, or a Trade;  
Experience in the Sreets proclaims it loud,  
That from the great and numerous Female Crowd,  
Widows like Deer, are singled from the Herd,  
To be undone, which Suitors call preferred:  
They tell 'em that they hate the Skittish Maid,  
Their for a Woman's Judgement poised and weighed,  
Till they have lured 'em to the fatal Curse,  
And they are theirs for better and for worse.  
(But every Day's Relation makes it common,  
To love the Money, when they hate the Woman.)  
Some Tawdry Youthful Punk is then maintained,  
With good old Gold in former Days she gained.  
Or if she Dies, which very oft does follow,  
A Heifer purchased with the Old Cow's Tallow.   

These Sylvia, these are Dismal Truths to tell,  
But ah! these Truth's are known but too too well;  
Oh! could I change my Sex, but 'tis in vain,  
To wish myself, or think to be a Man,  
Like that wild Creature, I would madly Rove,  
Through all the Fields of Gallantry and Love;  
Heighten the Pleasures of the Day and Night,  
Dissolve in Joys and Surfeit with Delight,  
Not tameley like a Woman, wish and pray,  
And sigh my precious Minutes all away.  
Woman a Ceature one may justly call,  
Natures and Man's, and Fortune's Tennis-Ball,  
Woman— What Noise is that?— Oh Heavens! a Man!  
Assist my Blushes.   

At which away she ran,  
Swift as the Wind; nor could I too this hour,  
Find out who was this Female Confessor;  
'Twas time to go, the Charming Prattler gone,  
But thought, as I was homeward jogging on,  
In all my Converse with the Female Kind,  
I ne'er till this time did Woman find,  
Freely without reserve to speak her mind.    

THE EMULATION A Pindaric Ode.  

I.  
AH! tell me why (mistaken Sex) do we  
So little real Beauty see  
In the admired adored 
* Minerva, the Goddess of Wisdom.  Athenian Deity.  
Why do we feigned Minerva slight,  
Despising Knowledge, which we ought to prise?  
Must none but the insulting Sex be wise?  
Must they be blessed with Intellectual Light,  
Whilst we remain in Ignorances' Night?  
we've Noble Souls as well as they,  
And we've retentive memories too.  
But I suppose, they think we'll best obey,  
And best our servile Business do,  
If nothing else we know.  
But what concerns a Kitchen or a Field,  
And those low things they yield:  
As if a rational unbounded Mind  
Should be to such low worthless fordid things confined   

II.  
They'll let us learn to Work, to Dance, to Sing,  
Or any other Trivial thing;  
But they're unwilling we should know  
What sacred Science can impart:  
Nor would they have us dive into the Abyss of Art,  
Nor in the Labyrinths of Learning go,  
Nor have us know the Languages of Schools,  
As if they thought to keep us Fools.  
That we their boasted Skill the more might prise,  
And think them highly wise,  
Because we have not Wit their Follies to despise;  
For Ignorance doth Wonder breed,  
And those who do but little know:  
May be persuaded all is Wit indeed  
That's spoke by Men, altho' it be not so.  
They think their lofty Strains we will admire,  
And judge that Mercury did them inspire.  
But, should we understand as much as they,  
They fear their Empire would decay;  
For they know Women heretofore  
Gained Victories, and envied Laurels wore.  
And now they fear we'll once again  
Ambitious be to Reign,  
And so invade the Territories of the Brain.  
And as we did in those Renowned Days,  
Rob them of Laurels, so we may now take their Bays.   

III.  
But we are peaceful, and will not repine;  
They still may keep their Bays, as well as Vine.  
We've now no Amazonian Hearts,  
Therefore they need not guard their Magazine of Arts.  
We will not on their Treasure seize;  
A part of it▪ sufficiently will please.  
We'll only so much Knowledge have,  
As may assist us to Enslave  
Those Passions, which we find  
Too potent for the Mind;  
'tis o'er them only, we desire to Reign,  
And we no Nobler braver Conquest wish to gain.   

IV.  
We only so much Wit desire  
As may instruct us how to live above  
Those Childish things which most admire,  
And may direct us what is fit to love:  
We would have Learning for no other end,  
But that our Time we may the better spend;  
Supposing 'tis below us to converse  
Always about our Business or our Dress,  
As if to serve our Senses were our Happiness.  
we'll read the Histories of former Times,  
And look with Horror on their Crimes.  
But all their Virtues we'll with Pleasure view,  
And both admire and imitate them too:  
we'll also study Sciences and Arts,  
All that's Ingenuous we will learn;  
For to be wise sure is our chief concern,  
And therefore we with care should cultivate our Hearts.   

V.  
But if the Envious Men will still declare,  
That 'tis enough for Women to be fair:  
Without their leave, we will be wise,  
And Beauty, which they value, we'll despise.  
Our Minds, and not our Faces, we'll adorn;  
That's the Employment for which we were born.  
The Muses kindly will their Aid allow,  
And to us all their Mysteries show.  
And therefore their Assistance we'll implore,  
Whilst Men inspiring Bacchus do adore;  
Without whose Elevating Wine  
we'll try if we can witty be,  
And with the help of the auspicious Nine,  
That Women are not Fools we'll plainly let them see.   
FINIS